he freezer door of my mother’s old fridge was hanging half open when I walked into her kitchen that Saturday morning.

A puddle of melted ice was creeping slowly across the yellow linoleum. It had already reached the leg of the kitchen table. A bag of frozen peas was lying on the floor in the middle of it, soft and floppy, like a dead fish.

My mom, Diane, was standing beside the fridge with a dish towel in her hand.

She wasn’t wiping anything. She was just standing there, holding it. Looking at the puddle like she was waiting for it to explain itself.

“Mom,” I said. “What happened?”

“It stopped,” she said. “Sometime in the night. I heard it make a noise. A sort of clunk. And then nothing.”

“When did you notice?”

“About six.”

It was almost ten.

“Why didn’t you call me?”

She shrugged. She didn’t answer.

Because she never calls me. She never calls anybody. My mother is seventy-three years old, and she would rather sit in a dark house with a broken furnace wrapped in three blankets than pick up the phone and ask for help. I’ve seen her do it. The winter after my father died, the furnace went out for two days, and I only found out because I stopped by with soup.

Ezoic
I crouched down and opened the fridge door. It was warm inside. The milk was warm. The butter was soft. A container of leftover chicken soup was sitting there at room temperature, looking sad.

I closed it.

“Mom, this thing is done,” I said. I nudged the edge of the puddle with the toe of my shoe. “It’s older than I am. Grab your purse. We’ll go pick out a new one this afternoon.”

Ezoic
She didn’t move.

She shook her head.

“Honey,” she said. “I don’t have my savings right now.”