Laura
The moment Corey led me through the kitchen doorway, I stopped paying attention to everything he was saying.
The room had been stripped almost completely bare. The old cabinets were gone, wires hung from the unfinished ceiling, and sections of the wall had been opened to expose plumbing that looked old enough to qualify for retirement. It should have felt unfamiliar, but the window above the sink was still there, exactly where it had always been.
My mother used to stand in front of that window every morning with a cup of coffee in her hand, watching birds crowd around the feeder while she packed my lunch. She always complained that the squirrels ate more than the birds, but she never stopped filling it. Some mornings, I sat on the counter beside her while she made toast. Other mor
