When I Was Four, My Mother Left Me Alone in a Church—Twenty Years Later She Returned Crying, “We Need You”
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Chapter 2 / 34
Chapter 2 - FLORENCE MILLER
Her name was Florence Miller.
I met her several months later.
She was fifty-nine.
Widowed.
A church pianist.
She lived in a small cream-colored house filled with books, old records, mismatched furniture, and lavender sachets tucked into almost every drawer.
My first placement after the church had not lasted.
Neither had the second.
I had stopped unpacking completely.
When Florence showed me the room she had prepared, I kept my small suitcase zipped beside the bed.
She noticed.
Did not ask about it.
The first night, she said:
“Do you like the door open or closed?”
I did not know.
“No one ever asked?”
I shook my head.
“Then we’ll try open.”
She left it open.
A nightlight glowed in the hallway.
May you like
I woke six times.
Florence was still there every time.
