She called me from an unknown number just after sunset and asked to meet. I said yes before my brain caught up. I pictured a scene out of a soap—a thrown drink, a curse, a slap I’d probably deserve. I didn’t picture a coffee shop by the high school in broad daylight… with her kids.
Her name was Maysa. She didn’t look furious; she looked emptied out. Her daughter—sixteen, maybe seventeen—sat beside her with her arms folded, jaw set like she’d already learned too much about adults. Two younger boys hovered close, quiet and bewildered.
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