my own.
Their mother walked out when they were babies. One morning she packed a bag, stood in the doorway, and said she couldn’t breathe anymore. She never explained what that meant. She just left.
I haven’t heard from her since.
If it weren’t for my mother, I don’t know how I would have managed. She’s seventy-two and still sharper than anyone I know. She braids my daughter’s hair before school, reminds the boys to brush their teeth, and somehow keeps the house running when I’m stuck at work.
I
