“Mom, what do I write here?” I pointed to the line on the emergency contact form, blinking back tears I didn’t want her to see.
She glanced at the rectangular card. “Retired,” she said impatiently. I wrote the word in tiny, smushed together letters.
I felt a strange heat in my cheeks as I continued filling out the form, the rest of the information second nature by then. I wrote Supervisor in the space asking for my mom’s occupation, directly under my dad’s new title. Wrote the phone number for my cousin’s flower shop on Castle Street.