The Chair He Bought, The Dog They Tried to Take, and the Choice

son—the boy I once held on my shoulders at a parade, laughing, sticky with cotton candy—and wondered when he became someone who could say that in my house.

And then I heard my own voice—thin, old, shaking.

“I know,” I said. “He’s not a person.”

Michael’s shoulders eased like he’d won.

But I wasn’t finished.

“He’s the reason I’m still one,” I said.

We argued continue reading …