“And where did you learn such patience?” she asked.
She did not look at the food. Her blue eyes were fixed on my face, studying the shape of my nose and the line of my jaw.
“The foster homes,” I said. “You learn to stay quiet and not spill things.”
Gloria stopped tapping her fingers on the faded canvas bag resting in her lap. It was a sturdy green bag, worn thin at the corners, with a brass zipper that looked thirty years old.
“How many of those homes were there?” she asked.
“Nine,” I said.
“Nine different families,” she said, her voice dropping a fraction. “And not one of them decided to keep you.”
The comment felt too heavy for a Tuesday morning in a bright dining room. It made me feel exposed, as if I had walked out of the staff room without my uniform shirt.
“They were just doing a job, Gloria,” I said. “Like I do.”
“A job,” she repeated.
She looked down at her cold breakfast, her expression turning distant.
“Some people treat family like a job, and some treat a job like family,” she said.
I did not know what to say to that, so I picked up my empty bus tray.
“I will bring you some fresh hot tea in a few minutes,” I said.
“Do not rush, Daniel,” she said. “I am not going anywhere.”
The laundry room was situated in the basement, and the dumbwaiter was always stuck on the second floor, so I carried the heavy basket of white sheets up the service stairs instead of waiting.
Sarah was sorting the afternoon mail at the nursing station when I reached the first floor.
Her silver keyring clicked as she tossed a postcard into the cubby for room one hundred four.
“You are hovering again,” Sarah said, stepping up beside me.
