They never asked what I needed.
Only what would be left.
The morning after Christmas, I put the untouched leftovers into containers and drove them to a church kitchen that served hot meals.
I left the wrapped stockings in a box by the door.
I washed the dishes.
I stripped the table.
Then I took a photograph of the dining room before I put the chairs back.
Seventeen empty places.
Seventeen names.
Seventeen people who had taught me exactly where I stood.
In January, I hired a lawyer.
I chose him because he listened before he advised.
That mattered to me more than his office or his suit.
He sat across from me with a yellow legal pad and asked, “What do you want to happen?”
No one had asked me that in years.
I almost cried from the shock of it.
Then I told him.
I told him about Richard.
