My Mother Locked the Gate on Me

said.

I took one coffee.

“That makes sense.”

She nodded.

Then she handed me an envelope.

Cream paper. Heavy. My name written across the front in her loopy handwriting.

No wax seal this time.

“I had an extra,” she said. “I know it’s late.”

I looked at it.

“Maribel.”

“I don’t care if you come. I mean, I care. Obviously I care. But I don’t want Dad being the reason continue reading …