“You’re right.”

Her answer was the final lesson in a long education.

Poverty had not made me good.

Wealth had not made Desmond bad.

A beautiful home had not kept a child safe, and a worn shoe had not given me supernatural sight.

I had noticed a little girl’s hands because someone I loved had taught me to pay attention.

Then I had chosen to listen.

That night, as Desmond made supper and Pearl argued about whether the fish should have a birthday party, I placed my father’s brass key on the windowsill beside the plant she had given me years earlier.