My Son Walked Into My New Home Before I Ever Gave Him the Address

hadn’t taken off, though sometimes I turned it backward when I slept.

She met me in the conference room.

Four folders sat on the table.

Not thick. Just heavy.

One blue.

One gray.

One red.

One plain manila with my son’s name written on a tab in Rebecca’s square, neat printing.

“Do I need to say anything?” I asked.

“Only if you want to,” she said. “Today is mostly continue reading …