yell.
I almost wish she had.
Her voice was flat and efficient, like a bill.
The mortgage had been due.
She’d had to move money around in front of my father.
It had been humiliating.
Then she said the sentence I carried for the next five years.
“You don’t get to be tired. You’re the one who made it.”
I stood in my kitchen wearing scrubs I’d had on so long the fabric felt soft.
I looked down at my hands.
And apologized twice.
She accepted once.
I promised to
