I stood behind her with my hands shoved into the pockets of my work pants, trying not to look as nervous as I felt.
Aunt Denise called herself Mommy
Milk. Eggs. Yogurt. Apples. Leftovers from the chicken I’d made the night before. Three little containers with Vicky’s lunches already packed for school.
The woman crouched to look at the bottom shelf.
« Someone reported that there was frequently no food in the home. »
The woman crouched to look at the bottom shelf.
I laughed once, but nothing about it was funny.
« This is the third complaint in five weeks. »
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