My mother-in-law pointed at the door during New Year’s dinner and snapped, **“If you don’t like my rules, get out!”** – Welcome

it a house hardly seemed accurate.

It was an estate, with windows taller than the bedroom I’d once shared with three foster girls when I was eleven.

“So this is where he lives?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

David hesitated. “Many years.”

***Many years.***

While I learned which foster parents locked snacks away after dinner.

While I wore donated clothes.

While I learned continue reading …