A few months later, there was a knock at our door.
Jason opened it, then stiffened. “Mom,” he said.
She stood on our porch in leggings and a hoodie, hair in a messy bun, no makeup. I’d never seen her look anything less than polished.
“Can I come in?” she asked.
Jason didn’t move. “Why?” he asked.
She sighed dramatically. “Your father is being cruel,” she said. “He cut me off completely. I have nowhere to go. I thought maybe I could stay here for a little while until I get back on my feet.”
She looked past him at me. “After everything I’ve done for this family, the least you can do is offer me a room.”
I walked over, drying my hands on a towel.
I thought about that turkey in the trash. About her voice saying, “poor little orphan girl.” About the way she’d smiled while I tried not to cry.
“I’m sorry you’re struggling,” I said slowly. “But you can’t stay here.”
