And every weekend Denise took Vicky, she came home in tears.
“They get mad because I won’t call them Mommy and Daddy,” she whispered.
Then one afternoon I arrived early, my bike tire flat, and crouched under their open window to patch it.
“The sooner we get guardianship and ship that girl off to boarding school, the better,” Denise snapped. “All she does is cry for my sister. I’m sick of it.”
“Just hold on, dear,” Howard replied. “Think about all the money. Once it’s ours, we’ll never have to work another day.”
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