Wren
By 1:50 PM, I had already learned two very
important things:
Liam could beat me at Uno.
Billionaire mansions had an unreasonable number of stairs.
We were mid-card game me losing terribly when the doorbell rang.
Liam looked up, alert. I checked the time. Right on schedule.
“That must be Mrs. Brown,” I said.
He didn’t speak, of course. But he nodded and tugged at his dino hoodie, suddenly fidgety. I reached out and gently squeezed his hand.
“She’s your speech therapist, right?”
He nodded again.
I stood, giving his curls a soft pat, and jogged to the front door.
What I expected: Some stern old lady with thick glasses and the emotional range of a cold pancake.
What I got: A fabulous Black woman in her sixties with curly salt-and-pepper hair, hoop earrings, and a floral blous
