His hands were still up. Shaking.
“I understand,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
I felt something hot rise in my chest.
My name is Carrie Lindstrom. I’m forty-one years old.
I’m a dental hygienist in Duluth, Minnesota. I’ve been married to Pete for fifteen years. He’s a ship pilot on Lake Superior. Guides the big ore freighters into the harbor. He was out on the lake that day.
We have one daughter. Zoe. She’s ten. Fourth grade at Lester Park Elementary.
She has red hair like her father. Freckles like her father. And a mouth like her father. She says what she thinks. Out loud. Immediately.
She’s braver than I’ve ever been.
I had an older sister.
Her name was Annie.
She had Down syndrome.
She was six years older than me. She had the same round face as Henry. The same thick glasses. The same way of tilting her head when she was listening hard to something.
