handkerchief touched dry eyes.
“My lost lamb,” she said, “has come home.”
Then she turned.
Found me in the second row.
Extended the microphone like a communion plate.
And delivered the line she had written for both of us.
“Tori, baby, come up here and give thanks with me.”
Two hundred faces turned.
Fans spun overhead.
A pew creaked behind me.
And there it was.
The choice.
Stay seated.
Smile.
Wave.
Drive home.
Allow her story to harden over my life and eventually over my daughter.
Or stand.
And destroy
