My parents refused to care for my younger kids while I tended to my oldest with leukemia; I called my ex-husband, but he said: “You’re just a poor writer, deal with it”

my knees, writing cardiology newsletters while machines beeped behind the door.

Dennis once asked whether I had family who could spell me.

I said they were busy.

I didn’t explain.

There was a version of me that could have exaggerated numbers on aid forms or hidden the small freelance checks still arriving.

I thought about it.

But I have always had a thing about lying, even to systems that feel unfair.

So I told the truth on every form.

I accepted only what the truth qualified me for.

It still