8 years ago I sat in my car and texted you. Target parking lot. Sepulveda and Burbank. Third level.
I never ask for help. Ever. But 20 minutes earlier, I threw up all over the seasonal section when my husband told me he wanted to date a teacher at school. A teacher who was married, and taught both of our boys.
I thought we were close. Our boys were best friends (still are). Our connection to each other crisscrossed through maternal bonds to sons. Our sweet boys.
Your sweet boy had graced my doorstep and couch. My sweet boy had driven him home after drinking too much and listened to his heart break over girls.
Your patchouli (and its cloying implication of integrity) had stained my clothes many times after an embrace at drop-off or pick-up.
I’m an idiot for believing your odor of friendship.
At first, you were on your way… but then you said you forgot you had a repairman coming.
School mom.
Walker Ladd Art 
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