I sat on the edge of Mom’s bed, staring, not at her, but at the palm frond that had drooped and dried over a picture frame—left over from last Palm Sunday. I focused back on Mom’s brown eyes—that held half the hazel of my own—sucked in a breath for courage. “I want to...
I stared at the bulletin board outside the mailroom, heart racing. A flush picked its way across my skin. I peeked down at the letter, its familiar script pulsing with possibility in my palm. Students jockeyed around me. He really had written. The words Student...
