Loving Admission
First I was confused. Later I silently disagreed. Then I started to question. “You support a lot of people,” my friend said. The conversation moved quickly past my subtle bristle, but my recurring trait of wanting to be right itched like a prickly tag inside a sweater. My children are grown. My parents are dead. I am not a caretaker for anyone. My love Kevin is as much a support to me as I am to him. My mild annoyance and urge to argue lingered. Margo visits our terminally ill friend Joyce week after week. Mary Helen has fed the
