“How is your daughter?”
“She’s good. She’s in fourth grade. She likes to draw.”
“What does she draw?”
“Houses, mostly. She draws houses all the time. Little floor plans. Where the rooms go. She says she’s going to build her own house someday.”
Mrs. Whitaker nodded. “That’s a good ambition.”
And that was it. That was the whole conversation. She went back to her book. I went back to cleaning.
That first winter, I had a problem. Willa’s school closed for three snow days in a row, the week of a Thursday. I had nobody to watch her. My mother lived four hours away. My friends all worked. Darren was “busy,” which is what Darren always was.
I called Mrs. Whitaker on Wednesday night. I was so nervous my voice shook.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I know this is unprofessional. Would it be all right if I brought my daughter tomorrow? She’ll be quiet. She’ll just sit in a corner and read. I promise she won’t touch anything.”
There was a long pause on the other end.
“Bring her,” Mrs. Whitaker said.
So I brought Willa. She was nine and a half, with a messy brown braid and glasses that were
