The gravy was lumpy.
The baby threw peas.
The toddler refused to wear pants for twenty minutes.
Wren read a whole page from a beginner chapter book, and Mr. Gideon clapped so loudly she bowed.
My mother brought a pie.
She also brought the rest of Dad’s letters.
She gave Elowen hers first.
Then she handed me a small envelope I had not seen before.
On the front, in Dad’s handwriting, it said:
Vesper, when you become a nurse.
I stared at it.
“I’m not one yet,” I said.
My mother smiled sadly.
“No. But you will be.”
I put it in my bag without opening it.
Some letters are not meant to be rushed.
In May, I graduated from the nursing program.
Not as a registered nurse yet.
There were still licensing exams and job applications and the terrifying business of becoming official.
But I walked across that small auditorium stage in a white uniform with a pin on my chest and my heart in my throat.
