I killed my mother. That's what I think the next morning when I see her on the floor in the kitchen with a puddle of orange juice floating around her.
I began to hope Darla could succeed. I'd been writing a fictional version (originally entitled Sneakers for obvious reasons) inspired by my experience with Darla.
As things began to deteriorate, my husband always said, "We got her too late." Maybe he was right. By the time I met Darla, her path was already set.
Darla was 15. I honestly could not believe that her mother was going to leave her in a homeless shelter over Christmas!
“I remember the first time he brought you around. I was half in the bag at the time—hell, maybe more like three quarters of the way in, but I remember. He stood up a little straighter, tried to act like a gentleman, even if he didn’t have any idea what that looked like.”
I drop off the donuts still questioning the meaning of this morning’s donut quest. Is it about sacrifice? None of this was convenient for me. Is it about following God’s plan instead of my own? About listening when guidance is offered?
What if we met everything with God's grace? Instead of anger. Instead of backing away or tuning out when someone mistreats us or lashes out at us. What if we came back with God's grace every single time?
Hallie knew she’d laid it on too thick by the annoyance she heard in Becca’s tone. But she wasn’t entirely comfortable putting her life in the hands of an eleven-year-old.
Is this what we’re doing now? Did you have the vaccine? Moderna or Pfizer? J & J? Sore arm? Side affects? How? When? Where?