Chapter Twelve
Don’t wear pajama pants with drawstrings. Sara is in her own car seat, rocking back and forth, singing and what I can only assume is dancing. Her arms go up, circle above her head, then come back to her sides again. She’s kicking the back of the seat she’s facing with her little white sneakers. It’s peaceful. My car is peaceful. We’re finally driving home. When Sophie came down the elevator she was quiet. I
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Chapter Eleven
You will be that mom one day. I’m sitting in the hospital waiting room with Sara on my lap. Brice is at my feet playing with a couple rocks. Brice takes rocks with him wherever he goes the way another child would take his blankey or favorite stuffed animal. Rocks are his toys. They give him a sense of comfort. He has quite a large collection of rocks. There are big ones from the side
» Read MoreChapter Ten
Prepare even for oblivion. I’m writing this letter drunk because truth tends to flows easily when my blood is thinned with alcohol. And besides, who wouldn’t be curious about a letter written by a drunken mother. We’re supposed to be the sterling image of sainthood, mothers are. It irks me. We aren’t Mary. We definitely aren’t virgins. No way do we even come close to even the vaguest idea of perfection. That’s something so far
» Read MoreChapter Nine
Don’t cheat. Ever. I still have nightmares about cheating. I wasn’t cheating on your daddy, Sara, nor did I never deceive the man I was with before him. This was a long time ago, before I was thinking about things like steady paychecks, rent, and a car loan that would keep my soul chained to a bank for five years. I was in high school and there was a boy. I had a crush on
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