Then grief.
Real grief.
Because somewhere between grocery runs and burnt dinners and old game shows, I had stopped seeing Mrs. Rhode as a job.
And started seeing her as family.
That was the dangerous thing about loneliness.
It makes even small kindnesses feel enormous.
I grew up in foster care, which teaches you certain lessons early whether you want them or not.
Never unpack completely.
Never trust promises.
Never assume someone keeping you today means they will keep you tomorrow.
My mother disappeared before I learned to read.
My father spent most of my childhood in prison for things nobody explained clearly to me until I was old enough to stop asking.
I bounced between foster homes carrying my life in garbage bags because apparently trash bags were cheaper than suitcases for kids nobody planned to keep.
Some homes were decent.
Some were terrifying.
Most were temporary.
