That’s how my mother, Nancy, raised me.
Order mattered. Appearances mattered. Truth… well, truth mattered too—but only the kind that didn’t complicate things.
At thirty-eight, I thought I understood that balance.
I was a mother of two. A wife to Richie, who could charm his way out of anything and usually did. I organized neighborhood watch schedules, reminded people about trash day, and spent far too much time deciding between tulips and daffodils like it was a life-altering choice.
My world was small.
But it was mine.
And I trusted it.
Then Mr. Whitmore died.
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