I told him.

Then I took the other one.

That was the kind of help I could receive without defending my right to remain their mother.

By then, the house in Houston Heights had acquired its own routines.

There were places for work papers and places for clean bottles.

A calendar held visits, appointments, and deadlines.

Some days the laundry was folded.

Other days it remained in a basket, clean enough to use and unimportant enough to wait.