"You care about him," I said.
It came out before I'd audited it, which was a habit I needed to address. Madame Leticia was mid-fold with a cashmere wrap in her hands and she paused, briefly, one full breath before continuing the fold.
"He was eleven years old when I came to his parents’ house," she said. She set the wrap in the suitcase with the care of someone placing something irreplaceable. Her hands smoothed the fabric once. "His mother had just birthed his younger brother, his father was occupied with other matters." She straightened. Met my eyes with the direct, level quality I was coming to associate with her most honest moments. "I taught him how to tie his shoes properly because no one else had thought to. I sat outside his door the first night he refused to cry in front of anyo
