“Grandma said if I don’t listen, she has a special folder for bad girls,” Carolyn whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
“What kind of folder?” I asked.
“With my name on it,” she said, her eyes closing again as she drifted back to sleep.
I sat in the dark for a long time, listening to her quiet breathing, trying to make sense of what a five-year-old could mean by a folder.
My phone vibrated in my lap, the sudden buzz making me jump.
The bright light of my phone screen illuminated the dark room as Donald’s name appeared with an image attachment.
I tapped the screen, opening the photo Donald had sent.
It was a blurry picture of a white document with a blue circular crest at the top, taken on the laminate countertop of our apartment kitchen.
Marilyn leaned over my shoulder, the faint scent of her lavender soap cutting through the cool, still air of her living room.
