PART 3   I stared at the hospital bracelet in the lunchbox until the letters of my own name blurred.

tears.

“She did. Many times.”

We stood there together, two women shaped by Grace Collins in different ways.

The next Saturday, I cooked rice, beans, and chicken with too much pepper.

I made one extra plate.

Not for a ghost.

Not for guilt.

For the empty chair at the end of the table, where we placed Mom’s notebook and Walter’s old hat.

Before serving, I looked continue reading …