adoption
My dears, my name is Gertrude Miller. I am seventy-eight years old, and today,
The lawyer’s voice cut through the stillness of the room, every word sinking into
The cardboard beneath my back had grown soft from three months of body heat
Ten years abroad. Ten years sending money religiously so my father could have the
Four children left in a cardboard box—that was the first thing Michael saw when
The way someone treats those beneath them reveals more than the way they treat
My mom made us weigh ourselves twice every morning because the first reading might
Betrayal “Say hello to the river, Helen,” Sabrina whispered, her breath icy against my
I always start my morning slow. A cup of coffee in my favorite ceramic
The engine of Andrew’s Mercedes was a low growl in the oppressive silence of