“Is your mom coming tomorrow?”
Harold asked the question while I was sitting halfway up the stairs with one crutch wedged beneath my arm, my cast stretched awkwardly in front of me, and our seven-year-old daughter’s coat across my lap.
I stared at him.
He was holding coffee.
I was trying to zip Nicki’s coat with one hand while simultaneously telling our nine-year-old, Sasha, that no, cereal did not count as lunch just because she poured it into a plastic container….
