Seven
I pulled into our cul-de-sac. It wasn’t exactly a cul-de-sac. It was a dead end street that curved into a patch of dirt between two houses. To call it a blue collar neighborhood would be too kind.
The neighborhood was ninety-eight percent white. There had been one black family that had lived here years ago, but the son sold the house to a young white family after his parents passed away. So, the remaining two percent was me. And then you could cut that down to about a quarter of a percent because I didn’t come from a family of purebreds.
My English-born mother had tasted the rainbow and come out the other side with a colorful set of children. Not one of the three of us shared the same daddy or the same heritage. None of us currently shared the same continent. My mum had gone back
