“Well, it sounds like he wanted you to know something, Tan. Are you going to do it?” Richie asked.
Our youngest, Daphne, ran in, her hair wild from sleep.
“Can we go to Mr. Whitmore’s yard after school?” she asked. “I want to get more leaves to paint.”
Richie and I exchanged a look.
“Maybe later,” I said. “Let’s just get through the day first.”
The rest of the day dragged on endlessly.
I tied shoelaces, braided hair, wiped jam from sticky cheeks, and reread the letter so many times my thumb smudged the ink. Each time I folded it closed, my stomach twisted tighter.
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