pharmacy had called again about a prescription they still had under my late husband’s name.
Then I saw my son.
It started last week.
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Rain dripped from his hair. His shirt clung to his chest, and his lips were trembling.
“Eli,” I said, pulling him inside. “Where’s your umbrella, baby?”
He looked at me, and my stomach tightened.
I hoped it was not the blue one.
Please, not the blue one.
“It’s gone, Mom,” he whispered.
The blue umbrellawasn’t expensive. It had a wooden handle, a silver button that stuck, and Darren’s slanted handwriting inside the strap because Eli
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