The morning of my seventy-third birthday smelled of freshly brewed Ethiopian coffee and petunias from my garden. I woke without an alarm at exactly 6:00 a.m., just as I had for decades. The Georgia sun brushed the tops of the old pecan trees, casting slanted golden rays across the screened porch floor. I love this…
“Your name’s not on the list, Mom.” My son said it softly, like he was trying not to bruise me with it. But softness doesn’t change the shape of a blow. Avery’s palm landed against my shoulder, firm and steady, stopping me at the doorway as if I were a stranger trying to slip into…
The morning I went looking for Eleanor’s necklace, the house felt like it was holding its breath. Phoenix sunlight poured in through the west-facing windows, too bright for a day that already hurt. The air conditioner kicked on with its familiar groan, fighting the desert heat in that stubborn way it always had. Somewhere downstairs,…