AT 3 A.M., I GOT A CALL FROM MY MOTHER — HER VOICE TREMBLING: ‘HELP… ME.’ I DROVE 300 MILES THROUGH A BLIZZARD AND FOUND HER OUTSIDE A HOSPITAL GATE IN THE FREEZING DARK — BAREFOOT, BRUISED, ABANDONED BY MY STEPFATHER AND HER OWN SON. SO I MADE SURE THEY SUFFERED TEN TIMES WORSE

Mom touched my arm. “I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner.”

I dipped the brush into soft blue paint.

“You called,” I said. “I came.”

A year later, Richard wrote from prison asking for forgiveness.

I mailed him one thing.

A photograph of my mother barefoot in her garden, smiling, alive, free.

On the back, I wrote: