That is what my mother used to call me. She stole the opportunity to peer at his departing figure from the closed curtains of the front room window, his shoulders slumped forward, his posture and his ego slightly deflated. This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. It may bring us together again. She calls us her guests, but in reality we are her prisoners. They do not come for me, to find me and bring me home. She spied him sitting on his armless black couch, his feet splayed as he stared at his television blankly. S. ” “Yes. You know as well as I do that it was accident. “Yeah,” Shari nodded enthusiastically.
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