March 7, 2016
“If you ask him questions like I do, you’ll get honest answers.”
“And what answers did you get?”
“When I asked him the name of the woman who hired the boys?”
“Yeah.” Monday shot up. “What’d he say?”
“Please stop, I can’t breathe, you’re killing me.”
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March 6, 2016
I have nothing to write about because this is day nine in which I have done ab.so.lute.ly nothing. Unless you count the moaning, of course. When sick, I am a world-class moaner. Back when my children were little, it was understood: mothers don’t get sick. They may have triple-digit temperatures, cough like the death scene in La bohème, and pop ibuprofen like M&Ms, but as our neighbors in Virginia said, mamas don’t take to the bed.
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