Lenora read it twice at the kitchen table, folded it, and tucked it in the notebook.
“She wrote it herself,” she said. “That counts for something.”
The credit union sent a basket of fruit.
The fr*ud officer, a young woman named Lacey, drove out to our house in person with a card, and Wyatt shook her hand like a small senator.
Our house changed that fall.
I quit the night dock.
It took me two months, and a conversation with a manager who didn’t understand, and I did it anyway.
I took a day job in the same warehouse, six to three, with weekends off.
I had spent eight years believing that being a good mother meant being exhausted.
My son had spent two weeks sleeping on a carpet to teach me otherwise.
Now I was home when he got off the bus.
I knew the names of his teachers.
