At 3 AM, My Daughter Texted

Because nobody just wakes up one morning and decides to blow up a Christmas.

You get there slow.

My daughter is Rachel. She’s thirty-one. When she was eleven she broke her arm falling out of the Hendersons’ apple tree and she didn’t cry, not once, not even when they set it. She just kept saying, “Mom, is the cast gonna be itchy?” That kid. I raised continue reading …