Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

down at my hand with a quiet, heavy pity that made my chest feel tight.

“I will get it,” he said, twisting the lid off with one quick turn.

“It was just stuck, Donald,” I said, tucking my fingers into my apron pocket.

He set the open jar down, his eyes fixed on the pocket where I hid my hand.

“We need to talk about Robert’s visit, Martha,continue reading …