I don’t forgive her. I want that written down because the shape of a story like this usually goes somewhere else at this point. She hasn’t asked me to and I don’t think she expects it and honestly I think she’d find it insulting.

But I know now that she mops a floor three mornings a week in the one building in the county that will have her, for dogs she doesn’t even like, because it’s that or nothing.

That’s not forgiveness. It’s just information. I’d rather have it.

I went back in July. On purpose, on a Thursday, which is one of her mornings, and I did not tell my mother until afterward again which I know is a pattern.

I didn’t talk to her. I stood in the foyer for about a minute and she was in the back with a hose and she didn’t see me.

I talked to the volunteer coordinator instead. Her name is Suneeta and she has a lanyard with about nine things on it and she talked to me for twenty minutes because I said I was a student doing a project, which was a lie and which I feel fine about.