“TAKE. THE. KIDS,” she screamed, her voice echoing through the dead-silent school library as she shoved her terrified son towards me.
Her name was Jessica, the queen bee of the PTA and the neighbor from hell.
It all started with a simple ask, a favor to “watch the kids for a bit.” But that bit turned into every single day. She said it was my duty to the “village,” because I worked from home and was always available.
When I finally said no, she told the whole town I was unstable. A charity case. A mess she was trying to help.
But there in the library, drunk and cornered, she showed everyone her true, entitled self. She thought she had me. She thought I would just break down and take her kids like I always did.
Little did she know, the small red light on my phone wasn’t just recording her downfall; it was lighting the way for a brand of payback she never saw coming, one that would rebuild my life and change our entire community.
The Open Door: A Favor for a Neighbor
The knock on my door wasn’t a polite tap. It was a rapid, percussive beat that vibrated through the floorboards and right up my spine. It was the sound of urgency, the kind that makes you think of burst pipes or a kid falling off a bike. I muted the audio file I was transcribing—a cardiologist’s notes, full of dense, unforgiving terminology—and slid my headset off. My son, Leo, was at school, and my husband, Mark, was at the office. The house was supposed to be my silent sanctuary until three o’clock.
I opened the door to Jessica Hale, our neighbor from two houses down. She was the undisputed queen of the Maple Creek PTA, a woman who always looked like she’d just stepped out of a catalog, even now, with her blonde hair slightly askew and her eyes wide with manufactured panic.
“Sarah, thank God you’re home,” she said, her voice a rushed whisper. She gestured behind her to her two kids, Liam and Chloe, who were standing on my porch looking bored. “I have a complete emergency. I cracked a molar on a walnut this morning, and my dentist can squeeze me in, but it’s right now. Can you please, please just watch them for a bit? An hour, tops. You’d be an absolute lifesaver.”
It was a reasonable request. A dental emergency is an emergency. Liam, who was about Leo’s age, gave me a small, noncommittal wave.
“Of course,” I said, stepping back to let them in. “Don’t worry about it. Go.”
She gave me a brilliant, grateful smile. “You are the best. The absolute best.” Then she leaned in and whispered, “They’ve had a snack, but Chloe gets cranky if she watches too much TV. Be right back!”
And just like that, she was gone, her white SUV pulling away from the curb with a chirp of its tires. I closed the door and turned to face my two small, unexpected houseguests. The cardiologist’s voice, trapped in my headphones, would have to wait.
The Longest Hour
An hour came and went. I set the kids up with Leo’s old LEGOs in the living room, where I could keep an eye on them from my desk in the adjoining dining room. I tried to get back to work, but it was impossible. The audio file demanded my full attention—words like atherosclerotic plaque and myocardial perfusion imaging don’t forgive distraction. Every ten minutes, there was a new question, a new squabble over a specific LEGO piece, a new request for juice.
“Can we watch cartoons?” Liam asked, his voice monotone, already tired of the building blocks.
“Sure,” I sighed, giving up on the transcription for now. I clicked off the file, my deadline for the day already looking precarious.
I put on a show for them and sat back at my desk, trying to salvage the workday. The sound of animated aliens and laser blasts filled the house. Two hours passed. Mark texted me: How’s the day going? I typed back: Unexpected company. Jessica’s kids are here. He sent a simple, ominous reply: Uh oh. He knew Jessica.
At the three-hour mark, just as I was starting to feel a real knot of anxiety tighten in my chest, Jessica’s SUV finally pulled into her driveway. A few minutes later, she was at my door again, all smiles and apologies.
“Oh my God, it was a nightmare,” she announced, breezing past me into the living room. “They had to do a whole temporary crown thing. It took forever.” She was holding two large shopping bags, one from Nordstrom and one from a boutique downtown I knew was nowhere near her dentist’s office.
“Kids, let’s go! Say thank you to Mrs. Collins!” she called out.
Liam and Chloe mumbled their thanks as they grabbed their things. Jessica turned to me, placing a hand on my arm. “Seriously, Sarah. I owe you big time. You saved my life today.”
I forced a smile. “It was no problem.” But as I watched her walk away, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I hadn’t just done a favor. I had just been successfully tested.
The Village You Don’t Choose
A few days later, my doorbell rang at precisely three-fifteen. It was Jessica again, this time looking perfectly composed. Liam and Chloe stood beside her, backpacks on.
“Hey!” she said, her tone bright and breezy, as if this were a pre-arranged appointment. “I have a PTA budget meeting that I completely forgot about. It’s super important. Mind if the kids hang here for a couple of hours?”
This time, there was no pretense of an emergency. My mouth opened to form an excuse, something about my own deadlines, but she cut me off before I could speak.
“It’s just so great having a neighbor who’s home during the day,” she continued, already nudging her kids forward. “You know, it takes a village and all that. It’s so important for the community that we all chip in and support each other. It’s what makes Maple Creek so special.”
She had weaponized the concept of community. She framed her request not as a personal favor, but as a civic duty. Saying no wouldn’t just be saying no to her; it would be a betrayal of the neighborhood itself. The words died in my throat. I felt my shoulders slump in defeat.
“Okay, Jessica,” I said, my voice flatter than I intended.
“Perfect! You’re the best.” She didn’t even say goodbye to the kids this time. She just turned and walked away, already pulling her phone out of her purse.
I watched them settle into the now-familiar spot in front of the TV. I went back to my desk and stared at the new audio file I had to complete by five o’clock. It was from a family physician, and the deadline was firm. The low, constant hum of the cartoon felt like a headache starting. I was no longer a medical transcriptionist working from home. I was an unpaid, on-call babysitter. And the village she was talking about felt an awful lot like a population of one.
The Assumption
The requests became assumptions. There were no more panicked phone calls or even knocks at the door. Instead, it became a series of texts, each one more presumptuous than the last. Running errands, kids are bored. Can they come over? followed by PTA emergency! Need you!
Each time, I’d hesitate, my thumb hovering over the reply button as I tried to formulate a polite refusal. And each time, I’d fail. I’d type out Sure, no problem, because the thought of the awkward conversation that would follow a “no” felt worse than the two hours of chaos. Mark told me I needed to be direct. “She’s walking all over you, Sarah,” he said one night after I’d spent the afternoon refereeing a fight over the Nintendo Switch. “She’s not a friend, she’s a user.” I knew he was right, but knowing and acting are two different things.
The breaking point arrived on a Tuesday morning. My phone buzzed on my desk. It was a text from Jessica. There was no question this time, no pretense of asking.
Hey! Dropping the kids at your place at 3. Have a meeting with the principal. You’re a lifesaver!
I stared at the message, a hot wave of anger washing over me. Not “can you,” not “would you mind.” It was a declaration. I was on a conference call with my supervisor, discussing a new transcription software we were adopting. I couldn’t respond immediately. The call went on for an hour, my mind only half on the discussion, the other half stewing over the text.
When the call finally ended, I picked up my phone to write a firm, unequivocal “no.” But it was already two-fifty. Before I could even type the first word, my doorbell rang. A single, sharp chime.
I walked to the door and looked through the peephole. My stomach dropped. Liam and Chloe were standing on my welcome mat, their backpacks slung over their shoulders. They were alone. I scanned the street. Jessica’s white SUV was already at the stop sign at the end of the block. As I watched, it turned the corner and disappeared. She hadn’t even waited for me to open the door. She had just left them.
The Unspoken Contract: The New Normal
That afternoon set the precedent. My silent, unspoken protest—not answering the text, not opening the door right away—meant nothing. I had opened the door, of course. What else was I supposed to do? Leave two children standing on the porch? From that day on, it was simply the routine. At three o’clock, my doorbell would ring.
The arrangement began to bleed into the edges of my professional life, staining everything. My productivity plummeted. I started working late into the night, after Mark and Leo were asleep, my eyes burning as I tried to catch up on the hours I’d lost. The quiet hum of the refrigerator was my only companion as I deciphered doctors’ notes, my world shrunk to the glow of the monitor.
One afternoon, while trying to listen to a file with one earbud in and mediate a dispute over who got to choose the next show with the other, I missed a crucial detail in a patient’s report. I typed “hypothyroidism” instead of “hyperthyroidism.” It was a small but critical error, a mistake I hadn’t made in years.
I got an email from my supervisor the next day. It was polite but firm. Sarah, we need to maintain 99.8% accuracy. Please double-check your work. It was a formal warning. Reading it, I felt a familiar, hot shame. This wasn’t me. I was meticulous. I was reliable. But Jessica’s entitlement was eroding my competence, one afternoon at a time. This couldn’t go on.
The Transaction
I decided to confront her. I rehearsed the conversation in my head, planning to be calm, friendly, but firm. I would explain my work situation and propose a solution: either we agree on a set schedule, for which I would have to be paid, or the arrangement had to stop. I saw her pulling into her driveway after a trip to the gym, and I knew it was now or never. I took a deep breath and walked over.
“Jessica, hey,” I started, trying to keep my voice light. “Do you have a minute? I need to talk to you about the kids.”
She leaned against her car, sipping from a metal water bottle. “Sure, what’s up?”
“Well, I love having them over,” I lied, “but it’s really starting to impact my work. I’m on a deadline system, and it’s getting hard to keep up. I was thinking, maybe we could discuss some kind of formal arrangement? Or a schedule?” I left the word “payment” hanging in the air, hoping she would pick it up.
Jessica let out a short, sharp laugh. It was so dismissive it felt like a slap. “Oh, Sarah. Don’t be so transactional,” she said, shaking her head as if I’d just told a silly joke. “We’re friends, we’re neighbors. This is just what we do for each other.”
She pushed off the car and patted my arm, her touch condescending. “Besides, you know how much I do for this community. The bake sale next month isn’t going to organize itself. We all have to chip in where we can, right? I handle the school stuff, you help with the kids. It’s a balance.”
She had done it again. She had twisted my perfectly reasonable request into a selfish, anti-social demand. She painted herself as a martyr for the community and me as the person refusing to do their small part. She smiled, a perfect, dazzling smile that didn’t reach her eyes, and walked into her house, leaving me standing on the pavement, speechless and fuming.
The Whispers in Aisle Four
The world began to feel smaller, the neighborhood more hostile. Every wave from a passing car, every nod from another mom at school pickup felt loaded with meaning. Was I being paranoid?
I got my answer in the brightly lit, sterile aisles of the grocery store. I was in the cereal aisle, trying to remember if Leo preferred the honey-nut or frosted kind, when I heard familiar voices from the next aisle over, the one with the organic snacks and gluten-free crackers. It was Brenda and Karen, two of Jessica’s main PTA lieutenants.
“I just feel for Jessica, you know?” Brenda was saying, her voice a low, conspiratorial hum. “She’s trying so hard to be there for Sarah, giving her a little something to do in the afternoons.”
My hand froze over a box of Cheerios. My blood ran cold.
“I know,” Karen chimed in. “Jessica said she seems really on edge lately. A bit unstable. Snapped at her the other day just for asking a small favor. It’s probably the isolation, being home all day by herself. Honestly, watching the kids is probably good for her. Gives her a sense of purpose.”
A sense of purpose. The words echoed in the cavern of my skull. It wasn’t just that Jessica was taking advantage of me. She was painting a picture for the entire neighborhood, casting herself as the benevolent saint looking out for her poor, fragile neighbor. She wasn’t the user; she was the savior. And I was the charity case.
I abandoned my cart right there in the middle of the aisle and walked out of the store. The anger was so intense it felt like I was choking on it. This wasn’t about babysitting anymore. This was about my reputation. This was a war, and I hadn’t even realized it had been declared.
The Digital Execution
I spent the rest of the day in a cold fury. Mark came home to find me pacing the kitchen, the story pouring out of me in a torrent of furious words. “That’s it,” he said, his face grim. “No more. You’re done. You send her a text right now and you end it. No apologies, no explanations.”
He was right. My attempt at a face-to-face conversation had been a disaster. She had twisted my words, laughed in my face. There was no reasoning with her. A direct, impersonal message was the only path left. My hands were shaking as I typed it out.
Jessica, I can no longer watch your children in the afternoons. The arrangement is not working for me and my professional obligations. This is effective immediately.
I hit send before I could lose my nerve. I watched the screen, my heart pounding. A moment later, the text status changed. Read 8:14 PM.
And then… nothing. No reply. No angry phone call. Just silence. It was more unnerving than an argument. The silence felt deliberate, calculating.
An hour later, my laptop pinged with a new email notification. The sender was Maple Creek PTA Communications. The subject line was: Community Wellness & Neighborly Support. My blood turned to ice. I clicked it open.
It was from Jessica. The email was written in her signature tone of cloying, performative concern. It spoke vaguely about the importance of “checking in on our neighbors” and being mindful of those who might be “struggling with the pressures of isolation and loneliness.” It encouraged everyone to “offer support, even when it isn’t asked for” and to be patient with friends who “may not be coping well or who exhibit erratic behavior.”
It was so skillfully written. It never mentioned my name, but it was aimed at me like a rifle. It was a public branding. She was pre-emptively discrediting me to our entire social circle.
As I stared at the screen, my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.
Hey, this is Susan Gable, Leo’s friend Max’s mom. I just saw Jessica’s email. I think you should know, she was telling everyone at the Fall Festival planning meeting tonight that you had a complete nervous breakdown and screamed at her kids.
The screen blurred through a film of hot, angry tears. She wasn’t just building a narrative. She was salting the earth.
The Spectacle: The Point of No Return
I read Susan’s text again, then a third time. Nervous breakdown. Screamed at her kids. The lies were so audacious, so utterly detached from reality, that for a moment I felt a dizzying sense of vertigo. It was my word against hers, and she had spent years cultivating the trust of every person on that email list.
“I have to go there,” I said to Mark, my voice trembling with a rage so pure it felt like a physical force. “I have to go to that meeting. I can’t let her do this.”
“Are you sure?” he asked, his hand on my shoulder. “Walking in there is walking into the lion’s den. She has a home-field advantage.”
“I don’t care,” I said, grabbing my car keys from the hook by the door. “I am not going to sit here and let that woman paint me as crazy so she can get free childcare. This isn’t about babysitting anymore. She’s trying to destroy my reputation.”
He looked at me, saw the resolve in my eyes, and nodded. “Okay. Then go. Don’t let her talk over you.”
The drive to the school was a blur. The meeting was in the library, and the thought of walking in there, of facing all those judging eyes, made my stomach churn. But the alternative—letting Jessica’s fiction become fact—was infinitely worse. I parked the car and walked toward the brightly lit library windows, my own personal battlefield. I had tried being nice. I had tried being direct. Now, there was nothing left to do but fight.
The Lion’s Den
The moment I pushed open the heavy library door, the low murmur of conversation died. It was instantaneous and complete, as if someone had hit a mute button. Twenty pairs of eyes swiveled to look at me. They were sitting around a large cluster of tables, surrounded by bulletin boards covered in construction paper leaves and turkeys. It felt like I was on trial.
Jessica was at the head of the tables, a binder open in front of her. She looked up, and for a split second, I saw a flash of genuine shock in her eyes. It was quickly replaced by a mask of deep, sorrowful concern. She had the audacity to look sad for me.
“Sarah,” she said, her voice dripping with pity. “I’m so glad you came. We were just talking about you.”
Brenda and Karen, seated on either side of her, wouldn’t meet my eyes. They busied themselves shuffling papers.
“I bet you were,” I said, my voice steadier than I expected. I walked further into the room, my purse clutched in my hand like a shield. “And I’m here to set the record straight.”
Jessica stood up, placing her hands on the table and leaning forward. She was putting on a performance for her audience. “Friends,” she said, addressing the room, “this is what I was talking about. We need to be a circle of support for Sarah right now. She’s clearly going through something very difficult. Her behavior has been so… erratic.”
Someone in the back murmured in agreement. I felt a surge of helpless fury. They were all buying it. Every single one of them. I was about to open my mouth, to unleash the torrent of truth I had been holding back for weeks, when the library doors swung open again, hard, banging against the wall.
The Implosion
Every head turned. And there, framed in the doorway, was a different Jessica.
This wasn’t the poised, perfect PTA president. This Jessica was a mess. Her expensive silk blouse was rumpled and had a dark, wet stain near the collar. Her mascara was smudged beneath one eye, and her blonde hair was falling out of its elegant twist. She was swaying slightly on her feet, and clinging to her hands were Liam and Chloe, their faces pale and scared. The air suddenly smelled of stale wine.
“My sitter cancelled,” she announced to the stunned room, her voice a loud, sloppy slur. “Had to leave a very important client dinner. Can you believe the nerve?”
She blinked, trying to focus, and then her eyes landed on me. A slow, venomous smile spread across her face. It was a terrifying, triumphant look. She saw me not as her accuser, but as her solution.
She started walking toward me, dragging her children behind her like luggage. The other parents shrank back in their chairs, a mixture of shock and second-hand embarrassment on their faces.
“Well, look who it is,” she slurred, stopping a few feet in front of me. The smell of alcohol was overwhelming. “Perfect timing.”
She let go of Chloe’s hand and gave her a little push towards me. “Here,” she said, her voice echoing in the dead silent library. “You take them. It’s what you’re good for. It’s your job.”
The raw, undiluted entitlement, the sheer contempt in her voice—it was all out there, stripped bare for everyone to see. This was the real Jessica. Not the community builder, not the concerned friend. Just this. A drunk, neglectful woman who saw other people as tools for her own convenience. And in that horrifying moment, my fear vanished, replaced by a cold, shocking clarity.
The Red Dot
Time seemed to slow down. I could see every detail: the fear in Liam’s eyes as he stared at his mother, the way Chloe was trying to hide behind her brother, the mortified faces of Brenda and Karen. They were finally seeing what I had been seeing for weeks.
My own anger felt distant, packed away. My body moved on its own, driven by a new, sharp-edged instinct. I reached into my purse, my fingers closing around the cool, smooth case of my phone. I pulled it out. My hand was shaking, but my movements were deliberate.
I unlocked the screen, swiped to the camera, and switched it to video mode. A small red dot appeared in the corner of the screen, a tiny beacon of truth in the hushed, tense room. I held the phone up, angling it to capture Jessica, her kids, and the shocked faces of the PTA members in the background.
My voice, when it came out, was low and steady. It didn’t shake. “Say that again, Jessica.”
She didn’t see the phone. Or maybe she was too drunk to register what it meant. All she saw was my defiance. Her face, already flushed with alcohol, darkened with rage. The last vestiges of her public mask crumbled into dust.
She grabbed Liam’s arm and shoved him forward again, harder this time. The little boy stumbled, catching himself before he fell.
“I SAID,” she bellowed, her voice a raw, ugly thing that filled every corner of the silent library, “TAKE. THE. KIDS.”
The phone was still recording. It captured her distorted, furious face. It captured the tremor in Liam’s lip. It captured the gasp from someone in the back of the room. It captured everything.
The Aftermath: The Send Button
Back home, the silence of my house was a stark contrast to the chaos of the library. Mark had been waiting up, and I didn’t have to say a word. The look on my face told him everything. I sat down at my desk, plugged my phone into my computer, and transferred the video file.
I watched it once. It was even more damning than I remembered. The shaky camera view, the stunned silence of the room, Jessica’s slurred, belligerent shouting, and the stark fear on her children’s faces. It was three minutes of pure, unadulterated self-destruction. And I had captured it.
My first instinct was to post it everywhere—on the town Facebook group, on Twitter, to send it to every person on that PTA email list. I wanted vindication. I wanted everyone who had whispered about me in the grocery store to see the truth in high definition.
But then I looked at the thumbnail image on the screen. It was of Liam, his small face crumpled in fear. This wasn’t just about me and Jessica anymore. Releasing this video publicly would humiliate those children forever. It would make their trauma a spectacle for town gossip.
There had to be another way. A way to get justice without causing more harm to the innocent parties. I opened a new email. In the “To” field, I typed the email addresses for the school principal, Mr. Davison, and the superintendent of the district, whose name I found on the school website.
The subject line was simple: Urgent Concern Regarding PTA President Jessica Hale.
I spent twenty minutes writing the body of the email. I was calm, factual, and brief. I detailed the history of the unsolicited childcare, the smear campaign, and the events that had transpired in the library that evening. I wrote: While the personal dispute is one thing, her behavior tonight, particularly in front of her children and other parents, demonstrated a serious lapse in judgment and raised concerns for her children’s well-being.
Then, I attached the video file. My cursor hovered over the “Send” button for a long, long time. This was a point of no return. This would set in motion events I couldn’t control. I thought about the warning from my job, the whispers in the grocery store, the look on Liam’s face. I took a deep breath and clicked.
The Phone Call
I didn’t sleep that night. I just lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the night’s events. I felt a strange mix of emotions: a grim satisfaction, a deep sadness for her kids, and a potent dread about what would happen next.
The call came at nine o’clock the next morning. The caller ID said Maple Creek Elementary. It was Principal Davison.
“Mrs. Collins,” he said, his voice heavy. “I received your email this morning. I’ve watched the video. I… I am horrified. I have no words.”
He sounded genuinely shaken. “First, I want to apologize on behalf of the school. Ms. Hale’s behavior was inexcusable, and I am so sorry you were put in that position.”
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
“Second,” he continued, his tone becoming more formal, “I want to inform you of the actions being taken. I have already spoken with the superintendent. Jessica Hale has been immediately and permanently removed from her position as PTA president and has been barred from all volunteer activities within the district. Furthermore, as mandated reporters, we have a legal and ethical obligation. A report has been filed with the county’s Child Protective Services for a wellness check.”
CPS. The words landed with a thud in my stomach. It was one thing to get her kicked out of the PTA; it was another to bring a government agency to her door. For a moment, I felt a pang of guilt. Had I gone too far?
But then I remembered the raw fear on her children’s faces. This wasn’t about punishment. It was about protection. The system, for all its flaws, was being called in to do what it was designed to do: check on the welfare of children who might be in an unsafe environment. I had made the right call. The necessary call.
The Floodgates
News travels fast in a small town, but digital evidence travels at the speed of light. While my video wasn’t public, the story of what happened in the library was. The official email from Principal Davison announcing Jessica’s immediate “resignation” from the PTA for “personal reasons” only fanned the flames of speculation.
My phone, which had been silent for days except for that one text from Susan Gable, began to buzz. And it didn’t stop.
First, it was Susan again. Heard what happened. Good for you. I’m so sorry I didn’t say something sooner.
Then Brenda, Jessica’s former lieutenant. Her text was more fawning. Sarah, I am just sick about what you went through. Jessica completely misled all of us. I feel terrible for ever doubting you.
One by one, they came in. Texts and even a few voicemails from other moms. They were all apologetic, but underneath the apologies was a common refrain. Honestly, finding good after-school care is a nightmare. I’m always scrambling, it’s so expensive. I’ve been in a bind like that before, but I would never do what she did.
I was sitting at my kitchen table, reading through the messages, when I realized the real root of the problem. Jessica’s entitlement was the symptom, but the disease was the gaping hole in our community’s support system. We had pristine lawns and a top-rated school district, but for working parents, the hours between three and six o’clock were a black hole of stress and anxiety. Jessica had exploited that desperation.
An idea began to form in my mind. It was small at first, just a flicker. I was organized. I was reliable. I had a background in a detail-oriented, deadline-driven profession. And I, more than anyone, understood the problem. What if the solution wasn’t just getting rid of a toxic person, but building something better in her place?
The Community Hub
A few months went by. The “For Sale” sign on Jessica’s lawn was the talk of the neighborhood for a week, and then, like most things, it faded into the background. I never heard what happened with the CPS visit, and I didn’t ask. Her chapter was closed.
Mine was just beginning.
I spent those months buried in research. I talked to dozens of parents. I used my transcriptionist’s attention to detail to navigate the labyrinth of state licensing for childcare providers. I used my savings and a small business loan to rent an unused, dusty multipurpose room at the local community center. Mark helped me paint it over two weekends, transforming the drab beige walls into a bright, cheerful blue. Leo picked out the posters.
Today is the grand opening of “The Community Hub,” a formal, licensed, and affordable after-school program. It’s not just babysitting. We have homework help, a STEM club run by a retired engineer, and an art corner. It’s a real, tangible solution.
I’m standing by the door, checking kids in on a tablet. The room is filled with the happy, chaotic noise of twenty children. Brenda, the same woman who had whispered about me in the grocery store, is a volunteer. She’s in the corner, handing out apple slices and goldfish crackers, and she looks genuinely happy to be there.
Through the window, I see a large moving truck parked in front of what used to be Jessica’s house. Two men are carrying out a sofa. I feel a brief, fleeting echo of the anger and humiliation I endured, but it’s distant now, like a storm that has long since passed. I don’t feel triumph or satisfaction.
A little girl with pigtails runs up to me, holding a book. “Mrs. Collins?” she asks, “Can you help me with this word?”
I look down at her, at the open book, at the room full of life that rose from the ashes of such an ugly experience. I smile.
“Of course,” I say. “Let’s sound it out together.”
About the Author
