on her lap.
She was teaching Marin to thread a needle.
Four hands shaking for different reasons.
When they finally got the thread through, both of them cheered like a stadium.
My mother’s letter had arrived the Tuesday before.
Three handwritten pages.
Her version.
A season of trials.
A daughter confused by grief.
Scripture about honoring your parents.
And the word sorry appearing exactly zero times in any sentence that carried weight.
I read it once.
Put it in a drawer.
Went back to cooking dinner.
It hurt less than
