Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

on Main Street, blowing dry maple leaves across the concrete. Sarah was waiting for me outside the bakery, her fingers twisting her silver necklace around her collarbone.

She ran toward me the moment I cleared the clinic door. “What did she say, Mom? Is it what we feared?”

“Well now, it is my thyroid, Sarah,” I said, stopping by the green park bench.continue reading …