The Phone Call
AI art by Copilot This is the end of the story. Mom and Dad came in the door, and Keith and I ran to Mom and hugged her. She was finally home from the hospital, where she’d been for a long time because there was something wrong with her heart. Suddenly we were all three crying—I’d never been so happy that I cried before. Keith and I pointed at each other and laughed and cried at the same time and hugged Mom for a long time. And this is the rest of the story. It was an afternoon in 1967. I was at my pastor’s house, and his wife, Mrs. Wilkin, was babysitting me. Every day for a few days—a week or more?—I was to walk up the village’s north hill to her house after morning kindergarten to stay with her . . . because my mom was in the hospital. Mrs. Wilkin was a nice lady. I remember her as being tall (but all adults were tall), not heavy, and with dark hair. I remember learning to play pick-up sticks while I was with her, and I remember her giving me my first paying job. (I made