something.”
By the time I turned 18, I had stopped asking questions about the woman who gave birth to me. I told myself I didn’t care. I packed an old backpack, two pairs of jeans, a hoodie, my diner uniform, and the tiny amount of cash I’d saved from working after school.
Marie stood in the doorway with her arms crossed.
“So that’s it?” she asked.
I shrugged.continue reading …
