“Come on Melody, breathe, breathe,” she kept saying to herself as she tried to remain calm in her messy nervous state.
The first thing was to change her coffee-stained and now vomit-stained blouse.
An hour later, with her almost obsolete cell phone in hand, a knitted purse that her mother made for her many years ago, a light dress that she would soon not be able to wear, as it was totally clinging to her abdomen, and fell loosely on her legs. She let her hair down and pulled it back in front with bobby pins. There was no way to make her face look older, and since she had decided to stop doing it, she painted her lips a pale pink and wore sandals with high heels. She was ready to go to her sister and tell her everything and together look for an option.
What was certain is that Timoth
