Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

and she had known my husband, Donald, since we were all young enough to think sixty-four was ancient.

“Sit down, Martha,” Dr. Sullivan said, her voice measured and quiet. “Let us look at these hands first.”

I reached out and laid my palms flat on the desk, though I wanted to tuck them back into my coat pockets to hide the rough edges.continue reading …