It was Mother’s Day, the day we celebrate everything mothers are and everything we do .But that Sunday in 2008 was bittersweet for me. As a single mother I tended to think of my shortcomings —how many evenings I couldn’t spend with my children , and how many things I couldn’t 21 my waitress’ salary to buy .
But what 22 kids I had! They were 23 impolite enough to complain.
As I walked into the kitchen quietly to start breakfast, I was greeted by a vase 24 a dozen red roses! But even their delicate beauty was overshadowed by the note sitting beside them, in the quick, manly 25 of an eighteen-year-old. It was about a story that happened between Denny and me long ago. It 26 :
