“She needs somewhere safe tonight.”
“We fund three shelters.”
“I know.”
“We literally paid for twelve transitional housing units last year.”
“I know that too.”
“Then why is she standing in our foyer?”
The woman flinched.
I noticed.
I wish I could say that was the moment I softened.
It wasn’t.
At thirty-eight, I had become very skilled at writing checks for suffering I didn’t want close enough to smell.
My husband had built a regional freight company from two leased trucks into a business worth more money than either of us had imagined when we married.
Our home outside Charlotte had six bedrooms, heated floors, a wine cellar Daniel barely used, and a kitchen larger than the apartment where I’d grown up.
