Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

to my cuticle as the nail on my index finger split clean down the center ridge.

I gasped, letting go of the jar before it could slip from my hand.

Donald was out of his chair before the glass stopped rattling against the formica.

He took the honey jar from my grip without a word, his thumb brushing over my torn nail.

He did not scold me, but he looked continue reading …