by Ariel M. Goldenthal

When Grandpa got a job after years of bread lines and praying, Grandma changed the slope of the roof and put in false glass that grew a third floor to ripple across the island until neighbors believed our family had money instead of the layers of learned stoicism and generational woe that caked the wood floor. I peel the façade, watch the bitterness flake, cover the antique glass, and wait until the truth dries. The window in the closet at the end of the hall does not exist.