“It was a mistake,” she said.
She adjusted her grip on the faded canvas bag, her knuckles turning pale against the green fabric.
“Sometimes the people who are supposed to protect you are the ones who throw you away,” she said.
“I did fine,” I said.
“You survived,” she said. “There is a difference.”
I looked at the empty blue cup on the nightstand, then back at her.
“I should get back to the floor,” I said.
“Of course,” she said, her sharp tone returning. “Go do your work, Daniel.”
The autumn air was crisp, carrying the sharp scent of dry leaves from the oak trees surrounding the parking lot.
I walked down the gravel path toward my old gray sedan, my boots crunching in the quiet dusk.
The gravel was damp from the afternoon humidity, making a heavy grinding noise under my heels.
Why would an eighty-two-year-old woman care about the father I had never met?
In foster care, social workers asked those questions to fill out forms, but Gloria did not have any forms.
She had only her sharp eyes and that heavy canvas bag.
