The Man Who Entered Our Bedroom at 1:13 Every Night

and said, “Are you mad at Mom?”

I gripped the steering wheel.

“No.”

“Are you sad?”

“Yes.”

She accepted that too.

At the drop-off lane, before she got out, she leaned forward between the seats and whispered, “I don’t like when grown-ups do secrets. It makes the house feel crunchy.”

Crunchy.

That was Sonia all over. Wrong word. Perfect word.

The house had been continue reading …