“You never told me,” she said. “About the notes. About fixing her drawer. Sitting with her in the hospital. Any of it.”
“It was just my job.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Willa said. She picked up the hospital napkin. You’re not alone. She read it. Then she looked at me. “Mom. This was never just your job.”
Willa got into the architecture program in March. The letter came on a Thursday.
Of course it did.
She called Mrs. Whitaker in Oregon before she even called her father. I stood in the kitchen doorway and listened.
“I got in,” Willa said into the phone. She was crying and laughing. “I got in, Mrs. Whitaker. I got in.”
There was a pause.
“I know,” Willa said. “I know you said I would. You said it to my mom. She told me.” Another
pause. “Yes. I’ll tell her. Yes. I promise.”
