At My Daughter’s Baby Shower, Her Husband Dropped My Nine-Month Hand-Stitched Quilt On The Gift Table And Said, “This Thing Is Garbage.” I Smiled, Folded It Back Into My Tote, And Left The Country Club—Because By Morning, My Attorney Was Holding The Deed To That Lawn.
He would draw pipe diagrams on brown paper bags and say things like, “Don’t trust any house built by a man in a hurry,” or, “If the wall is damp, the problem is never where you first see it.”
I listened.
At home, after work, I made lists in a spiral notebook.
