kitchen table. A sheet cake with my name spelled correctly. My diploma propped beside the gravy boat like an honored guest.
My father, Ray, said grace.
Danny, nineteen at the time, ate most of the cake.
For about two hours, I was the pride of that kitchen.
I would have done almost anything to stay that way.
Remember that.
My mother did.
After dinner, she slid a cream-colored envelope across the table. My name was written on it in the tidy handwriting she used for church bulletins.
I assumed it
