know anymore. She’d noticed the weeks my own clothes got shabbier while Willa’s stayed nice. She’d listened, really listened, to the things I mentioned in passing on my way out the door — Willa’s grades, Willa’s dream of nursing, the colleges we couldn’t afford that I let my daughter apply to anyway because I couldn’t bear to tell her no before we had to. I thought I was making small talk. Mrs. Whitaker was keeping a record of a family she’d decided to care about.
That’s the part that undid me,
Comments