“Then why do I feel like my children got turned into a sermon and a fundraiser before breakfast?”
Denise opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
“Because someone made a choice for you that wasn’t theirs to make.”
The trailer went quiet.
Even Noah stopped turning pages.
I thought my mother might start yelling then.
Maybe I wanted her to.
Yelling is cleaner than disappointment.
Instead she said something softer, which was worse.
“I let myself believe for one night that we could be helped without becoming a story.”
Denise’s eyes filled.
She blinked it back.
“That should have been true.”
I looked at her and wanted to trust her and wanted to hate her and wanted to be eight years old again, before I knew those could all happen in the same body at once.
Then Denise said the second thing that changed everything.
“The donations from that post are climbing fast.”
My mother went still.
“I don’t want them.”
Denise nodded once.
“Okay.”
