The Son Who Broke Her

a cab. The driver' s concerned face was a fuzzy shape in the rearv

"And then... I need

ed to be careful. They put a few stitches in the back of my scalp and gave me painkille

b. The two-hour drive to my grandmother's house was a haze. I leaned my good side against the cool glass of the window a

w up. This was the h

g and a garden overflowing with unruly flowers. It smelled

coming. Her face, lined with age and wisdom, crumpled with worry

and for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, I let myself break. I sobbed into her shoulder, a storm of g

table, and placed a steaming mug of herbal tea in my han

from this very garden. My smile was wide and gap-toothed, my eyes bright with pride. I had been obsessed with agriculture, wit

Mark. Then

every single night, his small body curled against mine. I remembered his little hand in mine, how he'd look up a

d that

g in the dirt. But then he went back to school and told his friends about it. They were Mark's

ome cryin

ted in a way I'd never seen before. "Why do you have to be from

lt down and said, "It's okay, son. You're a Jenkins. That

about my hometown. He refused to visit my grandmother, calling her house "old and smelly." He a

sn't a stranger. He was a creature Mar

ispered, the words tasting

broken, can't be fixed, my dear. You just have to s

soft, the quilt handmade. I fell into it, and for the first time since the storm, I slept. A deep, dreamless sleep,