Her family had left two hospital chairs empty while she fought her way back to life.
Then they had demanded money as if absence were something she owed interest on.
For thirty-three years, Mallory had mistaken being useful for being loved.
But the night the police came to her porch, with red and blue light flashing across her discharge papers and her father’s complaint in an officer’s hand, she finally understood the difference.
Usefulness can be demanded.
Love cannot.
And from that night on, Mallory stopped paying people to pretend they were family.
