I called Mom while I was shopping and asked, “Should I bring chocolate cake or apple pie for Christmas?” – Welcome

nine.”

“Correct,” Laya said.

Three weeks later, Monica called while I was leaving work.

“We got a house.”

“The program?”

“Yes.”

She was laughing and crying.

“Laya and I got the first placement.”

I leaned against my car.

“Which house?”

A pause.

Then she said, “Yours.”

For several seconds, I couldn’t speak.

The bungalow.

Mom’s bay window.

Dad’s pencil mark.

A nine-year-old continue reading …