selfish.
That’s what six years of envelopes will do to your arithmetic.
I moved into the house eight months pregnant, with Dena carrying anything heavier than a lamp.
Before unpacking the kitchen, I painted the front door blue.
That same month, I wrote one letter by hand to my grandmother June—my father’s mother, and the only person in that family I still believed might prefer a hard truth to a comfortable story.
I wrote everything.
Caleb.
The scaffold.
The pregnancy.
The transfers.
The phone call.
I told her my mother
