He Said My Mother Dying Wasn’t His Problem

glanced at my uniform, then at the single duffel bag in my hand. “Mm-hm.”

No pity. No fake cheer. I liked her right away.

The room had a dented mini-fridge and a painting of a bowl of pears screwed to the wall like somebody was afraid a guest might steal the pears. I showered. I stood under the water until it ran cold. Then I sat on the edge of the bed continue reading …