The Prescotts Thought My Uniform Was Decorative

She made the choice for me.

“Go,” she said, eyes half open.

“No.”

“Mom.”

That tone. The old one. Sixteen years old, standing in the kitchen with car keys in her hand, pretending she wasn’t asking permission.

“I need you to see it,” she said.

I bent and kissed her forehead above the bruise.

“I’ll be back before they move you upstairs.”

“Don’t let Todd near continue reading …