were twelve when their middle school held its winter arts showcase.
Amara had a drawing selected for the student exhibit.
Andy was performing with the jazz band.
Ashton’s robotics club was demonstrating a small machine in the lobby that he had spent three weeks insisting was “definitely not dangerous.”
I arrived early because being the mother of triplets had trained me to assume something would go wrong.
Mrs. Henderson came too.
She was seventy-eight by then and still considered herself an honorary grandmother.
We found seats near the middle.
The auditorium filled quickly.
Parents talked.
Children ran through the aisles.
Someone behind us was loudly opening a package of candy.
I was looking at the program when Mrs. Henderson touched my arm.
“Allison.”
Something about her voice made me look up.
She wasn’t looking at me.
She was staring toward the aisle.
I followed her gaze.
At first, I saw
