“It’s nowhere near our house.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“But picking Adele up won’t?”
I stared at him.
For eleven mornings, my mother had crossed half the city.
Our neighbor had rearranged meetings.
I’d balanced cereal bowls against my cast because standing at the counter hurt.
And Harold was explaining that his coworker’s neighborhood wasn’t that bad.
For eleven mornings, my mother had crossed half the city.
“You’d rather drive across town for Adele than take your daughters to school.”
“Don’t make this weird.”
“I’m not making anything.”
“Her car is in the shop,” he muttered. “Who else is supposed to give her a ride?”
I blinked.
“Who else is supposed to give her a ride?”
“Apparently the same mysterious person taking your daughters.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“You have your mom. You have Linda.”
There it was.
You have your mom.
You have Linda.
Not “we.”
“You have your mom. You have Linda.”
