A Nurse Mentioned the Woman Visiting My Dying Husband—Then She Came to My Door With a Letter About a Five-Year-Old Boy
I held my bag in front of me with both hands.
“Thank you for agreeing.”
She looked at my tired face, then stepped back.
“We can talk first.”
The home was an approved foster placement, with the ordinary sounds and belongings of children living there.
Shoes near the door.
Books on a low shelf.
A drawing held to a cupboard with tape that had begun lifting at one corner.
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