her life, and I started telling her things I never told anyone: foster homes, learning not to get attached, never planning beyond the next rent payment because hope felt unsafe. One night, she muted the TV and looked at me hard.
“You only think about surviving next month, James. Don’t you have dreams?”
I shrugged.
“I guess I’d like to keep working at the diner. Maybe get promoted one day.”
“Well,” she said, unimpressed. “I suppose that’s something.”
That winter, she gave me a pair of green knitted socks so
