Pennies in a Bowl

Pennies in a Bowl

The argument began over something minor. It always does. A misplaced receipt or an offhand comment that needs to be corrected. My mother, perched on the edge of the couch, clutched an old Tupperware container filled with pennies, her thin shoulders pulled up like shutters against a storm. Her lips were pursed, and her eyes were watery and sharp. I stood across from her, half-defensive, half-desperate to connect, the space between us filled with invisible barbs.

"Pennies? You're serious?" I asked, incredulous but already regretting the tone.

She nodded, defiance mingling with shame. "We don't have the money for candy this year. Do you think it's bad? It's better than nothing. Kids like shiny things."

Shiny things. My father used to call her "his shiny thing," a nickname that embarrassed her but lit up her face anyway. It had been a year since we buried him, but her grief hung in the air like a second shadow, muting even the brightest corners of her house.

"Fine," I said eventually, trying to hide my frustration. I dumped the pennies onto the table and began sorting them into neat stacks of ten. Each clink of metal against metal felt like an accusation, like I was betraying some sacred memory of my father. But this was what we had. We didn't have chocolate bars, licorice, or caramel. We had pennies.

She stood over me silently, her presence both oppressive and unbearably fragile. It wasn't about the candy; I knew that. It was about surviving in the hollowed-out shell of a once-full life.

Winter came, and with it, silence. My mother started attending a widow's support group at the church. When she first mentioned it, it felt like a betrayal, like she was trying to replace my father in the neat way she replaced the batteries in her remote control—efficiently. Painfully.

I kept my distance, burying myself in my college classes and avoiding the house as much as possible. Every visit home felt like reopening a wound. Her absence when I arrived was both a relief and a sting.

One weekend, she came back from the group with a man.

"His name is AJ," she said simply, her voice like a stone skipping over water, fragile but trying.

AJ had a square face and hands that looked too big for the rest of him. He was quiet and kind, but every time he laughed, it sounded like an apology. I watched them over dinner that night—the way she leaned toward him, the way he softened under her gaze. A small, jealous part of me wanted to scream.

"You've only known him a few months," I said, too sharply, as she cleared the dishes.

Her hands stilled on the edge of the sink, water pooling at her wrists.

"I don't expect you to understand," she said, her voice soft but steady. "But I need this. I need something to remind me I'm still alive."

The words landed with a quiet thud. They didn't stop me from sulking for the rest of the evening, but they stayed with me long after I'd driven back to campus.

The following Halloween, I came home again. I wasn't expecting to stay long—just a quick visit to check in. But seeing AJ at the kitchen table stopped me in my tracks. He was rolling pennies into neat little stacks like I had done the year before.

"She wanted to do it again," he said when he saw me, his voice warm but careful. "I offered to buy candy, but she said no."

Something broke inside me then—not a violent snap, but the slow, quiet crack of ice melting under pressure. I sat down beside him, wordlessly grabbing a handful of pennies.

"Do you think it's bad?" he asked after a while.

"No," I said, smiling despite myself. "I think kids like shiny things."

We laughed, but the sound was awkward but genuine, like the first breath after holding it too long. And the house didn't feel quite empty for the first time in over a year.

The night passed quickly, a blur of tiny costumes and clinking pennies dropped into plastic buckets. AJ handed them out with a gentle humor that won over even the most skeptical trick-or-treaters. My mother watched from the doorway, her eyes glowing with something I hadn't seen in years: hope.

When the last child disappeared down the street, she turned to me, her face soft with gratitude.

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice trembling.

"For what?"

"For everything. For making you roll pennies, for meeting AJ, for not being enough after your father…"

I hugged her then, crushing her frail body against mine. "Don't apologize," I said, my own voice breaking. "You don't have to be everything. You're enough just as you are."

Looking back, I often think about those pennies. Something so small and insignificant became a thread that stitched us back together. They weren't just pennies. They were hope, resilience, and the courage to keep going, even when life felt impossible. 

And every Halloween since I keep a bowl of shiny pennies by the door.

Just in case

That winter, the house grew quieter still. I stayed away more often, using exams and papers as an excuse. In truth, I was afraid of the growing distance between us, fearful of seeing her happy again, and scared of the guilt that twisted in my gut at the thought of her moving on.

I buried myself in distractions. Late-night study sessions, campus events, anything to keep my mind from wandering back to the sight of her with AJ. When I did return home, I noticed slight changes creeping into the house. The flowers she used to buy for the dining room table made a reappearance, a soft splash of color against the grayness of her grief. She laughed more often now—sometimes at something AJ said, other times at nothing.

One evening, I found her in the kitchen, humming softly as she sorted through the mail. It was a simple sound, almost thoughtless, but it struck me. It had been so long since I heard her hum.

"How was school?" she asked, looking up with a cautious smile.

I shrugged, suddenly embarrassed. "Busy."

Her gaze lingered on me, heavy with unspoken words. Then she reached for the kettle, filling it with water for tea.

"I know it's been hard," she said quietly. "Harder than you'll admit."

I stared at her hands and how they trembled slightly as she worked. She wasn't accusing me, but I felt the weight of her words nonetheless.

"It's okay to be hands and," she continued, her voice steady. "At me. At him. At the whole damn situation. But you can't let it eat you alive."

I wanted to argue, to tell her I wasn't angry, but the words caught in my throat. Instead, I nodded, hoping it would keep her from pressing further.

Months later, the spring thaw arrived, a strange peace. I began visiting home more frequently, spending evenings in the living room while AJ and my mother played cards at the table. Sometimes, I joined them, and though the tension hadn't entirely dissolved, it felt thinner, more transparent.

AJ wasn't my father, and he didn't try to be. He was just there, steady and unassuming, filling the spaces my father had left behind. I didn't realize how much I needed that steadiness until one evening when I came home after a terrible week.

AJ was there the moment I stepped through the door, offering me a mug of hot cocoa as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"You look like you could use this," he said simply, placing the mug in my hands.

I wanted to brush him off, to retreat to the safety of my old room, but something in his tone stopped me. I sat down instead, cradling the warm ceramic in my palms.

"Thanks," I muttered, avoiding his gaze.

He didn't say anything else; somehow, that was precisely what I needed.

The following Halloween, as I watched AJ hand out pennies with a grin, I felt a pang of something I couldn't quite name. Gratitude. Or acceptance.

My mother hovered near the door, her eyes flicking between us. She caught my gaze and smiled—a genuine smile, full of something I hadn't seen in years.

Later that night, after the last of the trick-or-treaters had gone, she pulled me aside.

"You're staying for breakfast tomorrow, right?" she asked, her tone casual but hopeful.

"Yeah," I said, surprising both of us.

Her face softened, and for a moment, I saw a glimpse of the mother I remembered from before everything fell apart.

"You know," she said, her voice low, "your father would have loved this."

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. "I think he would have."

The bowl of pennies still sits by the door, though now it's more of a tradition than a necessity. AJ jokes that someday we'll run out of pennies and have to hand out nickels instead.

"Or dimes," my mother adds, grinning. "Some kids like shiny things, after all."

And every year, as I watch them laughing together, I feel the quiet warmth of something whole. It's not our life before, but it's worth holding onto.

Pennies. Just pennies. But so much more.

Kindly,

Lisa Kober