The Envelope My Father Handed Me At My Sister’s Wedding

drywall.

Paula had been my mother’s house manager in Watch Hill for nineteen years.

Not maid. My mother hated that word.

House manager meant Paula knew where everything lived, who had stolen towels, which plumber drank, and why no one was ever to touch the blue tin in the pantry labeled barley.

I’d sent Paula flowers on the anniversary of my mother’s death continue reading …