“You know what’s awful?” he said, measuring the detergent. “Separating people because they don’t have the same blood. Like that’s what makes someone family.”
There’s a letter from Colleen in my desk drawer, unopened, with Mason’s name on it. Dr. Reyes says he can read it when he’s ready, or never. That’s his call. Not mine.
When the cycle finished, we carried the basket out to the line I’d strung between the porch post and the old pecan tree. Mason handed me clothespins one at a time. The cracked medallion hung on its chain outside his shirt, catching the sun.
We hung every shirt on the same line, side by side, until the basket was empty.
Laura asked me for a home, not a house.
It took me too long. But I think we finally have one.
Would you have given Gloria a second chance—or was letting her go the only way to keep your child safe?
