Category: book tour

Soldiers of Fortune: Volume 1 Genre: Romantic Suspense with stories by Nicole Morgan, Desiree Holt, Krista Ames & Deelylah Mullin Rhett Fortune settled on the small parcel of land he purchased in 1858 with his wife Clara and founded the beautiful landscape that surrounded his newly built home and what is now known as Fortune, TX. A veteran of the United States Army and as a Colonel who served with honor in the Mexican-American War, Rhett and Clara raised a large family. Sons and daughters, and grandchildren to follow, their clan grew throughout the decades. Now in the 21st Century, two of their descendants remain at the helm. Chance Fortune, a former member of the Army’s Delta Force and co-founder of Soldiers of Fortune, has an innate duty to serve and protect. Working with his brother, RJ Fortune, a former Navy SEAL and wounded warrior, they take the cases that their government won’t. And vow to protect the civilians that no one else can. They have quietly put out the word and now, after three years, other former brothers-in-arms have contacted them bringing situations that span not only the country but the globe. On Fortune family land they have built a facility out of the public eye for their office, a helicopter, a gun range, and whatever else they might need. They are the Soldiers of Fortune… and these are their stories. Including: Rogue’s Return by USA Today & Award Winning Author, Desiree Holt Sacrifice by USA Today & International Bestselling Author, Nicole Morgan Operation Unknown by International Bestselling Author, Krista Ames Rage Against the Machine by International Bestselling Author, Deelylah Mullin **Only 99 cents!! **Add to Goodreads Amazon * Romance Books 4 Us

Soldiers of Fortune: Volume 2 with stories by Nicole Morgan, Krista Ames, Deelylah Mullin, Joanne Jaytanie Sacrifice: Part 2 by Nicole Morgan Ever Since she entered the picture, his mission has changed. Eddie Peterson’s mission had been to take down the nearly untouchable drug lord, Rojas. Years of being underground, with no protection from his country, he is left to fight off the cartel on his own. It was a job he thought he could handle. With Marissa Rojas nothing is simple. The only daughter of a ruthless drug lord leaves little opportunity for a wholesome upbringing. Her life is complicated and thanks to her bodyguard, Eddie, things are about to get a whole lot tougher. Now, it is no longer Eddie’s mission that is in jeopardy. It is their very lives. Operation Undercover by Krista Ames Don’t get caught under the covers. Killing Me Softlyby Deelylah Mullin With only gunfire and each other to keep them company, can Jorden and Luke save the innocents without complicating things? When Jorden Mane met Luke Garrett, there weren’t wedding bells ringing, choirs singing, nor fireworks exploding—unless you consider the gunfire. But, as she got to know the mysterious man behind the stoic facade, she fell for him. Hard. But, it didn’t matter. They needed to get to find El Capitan—the mastermind behind the decimation of the small villages they’d encountered. As Luke Garrett used his special ops training to defeat the bad guys, he sensed a familiarity in the attacks—like they were the plans of a previous mission leader or commanding officer. Which made him shudder at every turn. It also made him have to think outside-the-box with regard to defensive tactics. All of it made his head spin, but the constant was Jordan. He didn’t know when or how it happened, but he’d grown to care for her. Which was a bad, bad thing when they were on the outskirts of the law. Will Jordan and Luke make it through the next siege? Can they keep their feelings for one another out of the mix? Or will passion fuel the flames of their survival? Dogs of Fortune by Joanne Jaytanie The Baker Corp. has recruited Blair Sellick, a nationally known dog trainer with truly phenomenal skills, to provide exceptional training for service dogs. The project would supply highly intelligent animals as partners for victims of PTSD and other disabilities. Or would it? The answer has disappeared along with Blair, her fellow dog trainers, and all the dogs. Ex- SEAL and canine handler Zane Kelly is done with war, with dogs, and with the Soldiers of Fortune. Coerced, cajoled, and eventually intrigued, Zane finally capitulates to the Soldiers of Fortune recruiters for just one project, to find Blair Sellick. The mission is clear, the dog trainers are dying, and nobody has heard from Blair for weeks. Zane has failed only one mission, and that failure cost his canine partner Axel his life. This time Zane has no intention of leaving anyone behind. **Only 99 cents!! ** Add to GoodreadsAmazon * Romance Books 4 Us

Desiree Holt is an Amazon and USA Today best selling author who writes exciting love stories at many heat levels. She has been called the Nora Roberts of erotic romance. https://desireeholt.com

Nicole Morgan is an international and USA Today bestselling author who has been writing since 2009 and is an author of erotic romance novels, which more often than not have a suspenseful back story. Erotic romance mixed with good old-fashioned whodunit. www.nicolemorganauthor.com

Krista Ames is an international bestselling author of contemporary romances that make you ‘fall in love with happy ever afters’. www.kristaames.com

Deelylah Mulin is empty-nesting with her hubby, Mr. VampBard. When she’s not reading or writing, she’s likely at the movies or finishing a home improvement project. https://www.deelylah.com

Joanne Jaytanie writes romantic suspense and paranormal. A transplant from upstate New York, Joanne lives with her husband and Doberman, on the Olympic Peninsula with a panoramic view of the Olympic Mountains. In her prior life Joanne showed dogs and managed her husband’s forensic engineering firm. https://www.joannejaytanie.com

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Sunspots by Karen S. Bell Genre: Romantic Suspense, Time Travel

Aurora Goldberg Stein is lost in grief. Her beloved husband, Jake Stein, has just died in a tragic car accident and her sorrow is overwhelming. But is this really the end? Perhaps, perhaps not. She hears his voice. She sees his ghostly presence. She travels back in time to another life with Jake. What is going on? What is the message? Jake Stein, a dashing Texan, sweeps Aurora off her feet and changes her life. A Brooklyn born actress, she moved to NYC and does temporary work to pay her bills. On this particular assignment, she accidentally meets Jake Stein, who is her dance with destiny. Leaving everything she knows, she marries him and moves to Austin, Texas. No longer struggling to make ends meet, Aurora wiles away her time bored and lonely, and trying to recapture the excitement she once had with this man. And then suddenly, it’s all over, her life, her future is gone. Vanished are all her hopes and dreams. But destiny comes in many forms, and when Aurora moves to a new house, she discovers that the previous owner has never left. The ghostly presence of Viola Parker looms large and becomes Aurora’s guide through time revealing to her the mistakes she’s made with Jake Stein through the centuries. This time, maybe this time, Aurora can get it right. Goodreads * Amazon

I get so much satisfaction in the writing process. I take care to choose just the right word, to make sure each sentence has the right cadence. I appreciate other writers who respect the craft in this way, and I hope my readers do so with me. Writing is a need, a desire for expression, and springs from well within my subconscious mind. Thoughts rise up, scenes rise up and blend in with the over-arching story. These thoughts emerge whenever they want to and wherever I am and probably not when I am at the computer. The computer is for the craft, the technique. The thoughts come during walks, or while driving the car, or at the grocery store. I am the willing recipient of these thoughts and so they seek me out. It’s a mystery this business and art of writing and it keeps me enthralled. Website * Facebook * Twitter * Amazon * Goodreads

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The Fixer Upper Echo Springs Book 1 by Maggie Mae Gallagher Genre: Contemporary Romance

Abby Callier is more in love with Shakespearean heroes than any real man, and she’s beginning to wonder if there is life for her outside the pages of a book. It doesn’t help that her esteemed parents tend to view her as they would one of their science experiments gone wrong. On the eve of finishing her dissertation, she escapes her staid existence to live in the house she inherited from her Great Aunt Evie in the small town of Echo Springs, Colorado. Because, let’s face it, when a woman starts comparing her life to horror films, it might be time for a break. Sheriff Nate Barnes believes in law and order and carefully building the life you want. In his spare time, he has been remodeling his house in the hope that one day it will be filled with the family he makes. But Nate doesn’t like drama or complications and tends to avoid them at all costs. And yet, when Miss Abigail Callier, his newest neighbor, beans him with a nine iron, he can’t help but wonder if she might just be the complication he’s been searching for all along. It doesn’t hurt that he’s discovered a journal hidden away by the previous tenant, and decides to use Old Man Turner’s advice to romance Abby into his life. Abby never expected her next-door neighbor, the newly dubbed Sheriff Stud Muffin, to be just the distraction her world needed. The problem is she doesn’t know whether she should make Echo Springs her home, or if this town is just a stopover point in her life’s trajectory. And she doesn’t want to tell Nate that she might not be sticking around – even though she should, because it’s the right thing to do, the honest thing – because then all the scintillatingly hot kisses with the Sheriff will come to an abrupt halt. Did she mention that he’s a really great kisser? Add to Goodreads Amazon * Apple * B&N * Kobo * Blushing Books

Born in St. Louis, Missouri, Maggie grew up listening to Cardinals baseball and reading anything she could get her hands on. She remembers her mother saying if only she would read the right type of books instead binging her way through the romance aisles at the bookstore, she’d have been a doctor. While Maggie never did get that doctorate, she graduated cum laude from the University of Missouri-St. Louis with an M.A. in History. Maggie is a bestselling and award-winning author published in multiple fiction genres. She also writes erotic romance under the name Anya Summers. A total geek at her core, when she is not writing, she adores attending the latest comic con or spending time with her family. She currently lives in the Midwest with her two furry felines. Website * Facebook * Twitter * Instagram * Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads

Abby spent the next hour cleaning her new room as best she could for the night. She’d work on
the full house and give it a proper cleaning come morning, but she’d spent the better part of the
day in her Rover and could feel the onset of fatigue settling in her bones. There was a
semimodern bathroom across the hall, with one of those claw-foot tubs she’d take advantage of
when she wasn’t dragging her feet and ready to go horizontal for eight hours.
Settled in for the night, she made herself a small picnic of her wine and cheese offerings and
added hitting up the local market for all the essentials to her to-do list for the morrow. Her
parents would only shake their heads if they could see her in her thermal pajamas, drinking
chardonnay directly from the bottle that hadn’t even sported a cork, but a lid that twisted off.
She was toasting her own brilliance when she heard the creak of the front door opening.
Grabbing her trusty nine iron, a little gizmo she’d inherited from an ex-boyfriend some years
back, Abby cursed at her phone’s low battery.
“Figures,” she muttered under her breath.
She left her room, tiptoeing down the stairs, her movements muffled by her thick socks. She
rounded the corner, and a beam of light blinded her.
“Gah!” Screaming, she swung the iron, ready to take on her intruder. All the self-defense
classes her parents had scoffed at hadn’t been for naught. Who knew that in a sleepy little
mountain town, burglars and vagabonds were a problem? The golf club whizzed over the
intruder’s head.
“What the?” a deep baritone barked.
She swung again, determined to fend off whoever the hell thought he could invade her aunt’s
place with mischief on his mind. The shadowed outline of a large man loomed behind the beam
of light. When he didn’t back off, only kept advancing, her internal panic button hit overdrive.
The nine-iron connected with flesh with a thudded whack.
“Ow, fuck, cut it—”
“Get out or I’ll call the police!” she swore, her pulse hammering, her grip on the nine-iron so tight
her hand was fusing into a claw formation. She reared back to strike again when his next words
halted the forward progression of her swing.
“I am the police.”
She blanched, almost dropping her weapon, but then thought better of it. What if he’d lied to
disarm her and then would attack?
Nice try, buddy. She wasn’t falling for it.
“Prove it.” She wasn’t the atypical heroine who idiotically descended into the darkened
basement, despite the light mysteriously not working, to investigate the strange noise. She’d
studied horror films and knew she was not the dumb bimbo, but the smart woman who survived.
His indicating that he was the police was a sub-plot straight out of a B horror film and was
precisely the type of thing the killer would say.
She raised the nine-iron into a defensive position as the man moved to her right, flipping on the
overhead light while pulling a shiny silver badge from his belt. He held it toward her so that light
reflected off the silver star. Blinking as her eyes adjusted, Abby wondered if she was dreaming.
Cornflower-blue eyes studied her, dressed in her flannel pink pajama bottoms, tank top, and
fluffy purple robe. He was larger than the darkness had suggested, probably a good six-three,

and lean. His dark midnight hair fell in curly waves to his jawline, which was covered in dusky
stubble. There was a ruggedness to him, indicating that somewhere in his make-up he preferred
life outdoors, and it showed. He reminded her of the men gracing the covers of the romance
novels she’d hidden from her parents growing up, and still hid from her colleagues.
She’d always had a bit of a thing for men in uniform, but the only defining mark that even
suggested he was an officer was his black jacket with an emblem embroidered into the right
shoulder. Otherwise, he looked like a mountain man, in a button-up emerald flannel shirt and
blue jeans that rode low over his muscular hips.
Then she focused on the badge. Oh, sweet heavens! The badge read: Sheriff, City of
Echo Springs. Why did this have all the beginnings of a campy horror flick? Woman goes to the
wilderness to find herself, makes acquaintance with the local law enforcement, and then the
army of dolls stuffed inside the home come to life, possessed by a demon spawn from hell, to
try to kill the heroine.

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The Alpha Nanny by Remy Marie Genre: Contemporary Romance

She needs money. He masks his pain. Life gives them a second chance, but reality may tear them apart. Deena Zheng is in over her head. With her father’s mounting medical bills, a townhome in disrepair, and more stress than one person should bear, she does all that she can do to stay afloat. Out of options and desperate to pull her family out of the red, she must get out of her comfort zone and accept a nanny position with her firm’s notoriously impossible client or risk her family’s livelihood. Jesse Grant struggles to get past his grief after losing the love of his life. Ever since her death, the billionaire hedge fund manager has used alcohol to mask his pain and, in the process, lost a part of himself. With a young son to raise and a business to run, he must pull himself together before he jeopardizes everything he’s worked so hard to build. When they meet, the physical attraction is undeniable, but their personal demons and new professional relationship will make any hopes of pursuing a relationship too complicated for either to handle.Will they ignore their growing feelings for each other and keep their relationship strictly professional or will outside forces force them to reveal the truth? Goodreads * Amazon

Remy Marie is a romance author who loves to write about charming heroes and brave heroines. While writing never came naturally for Remy, he continued to strengthen his craft, by constantly reading and writing. If he is not writing or reading, he is usually watching TV with his supportive wife, aggressively cheering for his college and professional sports teams, playing video games, or crunching numbers at his daytime job. Website * Twitter * Instagram * Amazon * Goodreads

“There you go again. Her name is like a deadly trigger for you. I bet once I leave here you are going to
the kitchen to drink away your sorrows. Just remember, while you are cozying up to the whiskey, you
have a four-year-old son losing a father. I know the path you’re heading down, and it’s not going to
bring her back.”
“Deena, it’s good to see you, and with a handsome man too. Are you on a date? He looks
like a keeper,” Mo Chou asked me in Mandarin.
This is the second time someone suggested Jesse and I be intimate with each other. He’s
my boss and that’s it. However…
I glance back at Jesse and he still had a mile-long grin staring at me. It was weird
watching him smile. In the short span that I’d known him, not once did he smile. Now, he hadn’t
stopped smiling since he came to the house. There’s a certain glow when he smiles. It looks a lot
like Lamar’s tiny grin.
“Mrs. Lee, he’s my boss. There’s nothing going on between us. We have come to dinner
to discuss business. That’s it.” I replied back in Chinese.
“If a man looks the way he does at you, he only has one thing on his mind.”
“Mrs. Lee!”
“It’s the truth!” She stated in her native tongue. She then turned to Jesse and smiled.
“Please excuse me. Deena is like a daughter to me and I haven’t seen her in a while. We were
just catching up.” Mo Chou stated in English.
“That’s okay. I love your small restaurant. It shows a lot of history.” Jesse added looking
around.
“Thank you. You can stop by anytime with or without Deena.”
“Mrs. Lee stop it. I know what you’re doing.” I snapped in Chinese.
“If you’re not going to claim this hunk of a man then I will.” She quickly retorted in
Chinese. “Right this way” she added in English leading us to a table in the back. I fought with
every urge not to roll my eyes at her. Jesse looked back at me and grinned as if he knew what we
were talking about.
Did he hear what Mrs. Lee said? No that’s impossible. He doesn’t speak Chinese.
However, the thought of him knowing our past conversation filled me with
embarrassment.
Why does he have to be so damn good looking too? I wonder if Mrs. Lee would still push
me towards him if he was ugly, four-foot-tall and had a peg leg? Who am I kidding? Of course,
she would.
The bottle kept me warm and it was the only drug able to numb the pain, but it also blinded me from
seeing the fact that it was destroying everything that I held dear.
Family over lust, it was a simple equation, so why was the final decision so hard to
make?

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Memoirs of a False Messiah by Pamela Becker Genre: Women’s Fiction

MiMi knows she is meant for something greater. She has a God-given mission. This belief, together with tragedy, moves her from the mixed-religion home of her early childhood to Orthodox Judaism in her teens, to the establishment and development of her cult in the Israeli desert. MiMi draws from the women in her life, in the Bible, and in other ancient texts, weaving modern and biblical dilemmas, as she shapes a truly unique place for her followers and herself. When her life and utopian community grow more turbulent and even violent, she questions her mission. Deeply affecting and thought-provoking, Memoirs of a False Messiah is the richly told story of a woman’s struggle to find her place in a world reluctant to accept her. Goodreads * Amazon

Memoirs of a False Messiah is Pamela Becker’s debut novel. Originally from New York, she has enjoyed a long career as a marketing executive and consultant for some of Israel’s leading technology companies. After she was widowed with three small children, Pamela co-founded and remains the active chairperson of the Israeli charity Jeremy’s Circle, which supports children coping with cancer treatment or cancer loss in their immediate families. A graduate of the Writing Seminars program at the Johns Hopkins University and the Arad Arts Project artist residency program in Israel, she earned an MBA from Tel Aviv University. Pamela lives with her husband and their five children in Tel Aviv. Website * Facebook * Twitter * Instagram * Amazon * Goodreads

I had my first vision at three.
One night, as I slept, I saw myself as a grown woman, surrounded by lions standing on hind
legs growling at me, a wall of fire glowering behind me. The only way out was a rope that
descended from above but was attached to nothing. I climbed it; my thighs rubbed raw from its
roughness, my feet bloody where the lions nicked them with their teeth, my robes flaming,
making me unbearably hot until I dropped the garments below and continued climbing higher.
“MiMi, it’s okay,” my father’s voice broke through the dream, and I opened my eyes. He sat on
the edge of my bed and patted the damp bangs away from my forehead. His thick black hair
was messy, and he wore only an undershirt and boxer shorts. His eyes, blue with specks of

gold, momentarily disappeared in the shadows of his face and I could feel him shivering in my
small room.
To my father – I told him what happened, watching his eyebrows join with concern – this was a
bad dream brought on by an overactive imagination and normal childhood fears. But to me, the
dream signified much more. The next day, after I found scratch marks on the bottoms of my
feet, I asked my father to write down the details of my dream as I explained them to him. I put
that piece of paper in a special paper-mâché jewelry box I was given on my birthday.
I had recently learned to read from a record of songs based on Bible stories. I can’t imagine who
might have given me such an album. My father was a fallen Orthodox Jew, disowned by his
family when he married my non-Jewish mother. I’m surprised that not only was the record ever
brought into my parents’ home but that it remained.
With a babysitter’s help, I mastered the kiddie record player. I played the Bible song record, and
sitting on my knees in my bedroom, followed the lyrics printed in large letters on the back of the
album cover.
The first song was about Daniel and the Lions’ Den. I don’t recall how the words go anymore but
the drawing on the album cover of a small boy standing alone, surrounded by angry, vicious
lions, frightened me. I would close my eyes as I listened to the song and imagined myself in the
den.
After the night I had my vision, my parents paid more careful attention to my education. The
Bible record disappeared and was replaced with one of fairy tales, of helpless beautiful girls
saved at the last minute by their handsome princes. I commented that the princesses’ parents
didn’t take good care of them, and soon that record disappeared too. My father took to setting
me on his lap, and we read the newspaper together. In the family room, the television off and all
my toys put away for the evening, I would sound out the headlines, and he would read me the
articles.
That’s one of the happiest memories of my childhood, reading the paper with my father,
stumbling over words like “inflation,” sitting on his lap, my bright orange cotton-covered legs
over his heavy blue jeans. I remember staring at his toenails, which were always a little too long
and thick and thinking how powerful my father was. And how safe I was sitting on his lap. That’s
one of the nasty tricks of childhood: the illusion of security.
I don’t have those kinds of memories about my mother. She worried about my eating the right
foods and growing at the correct rate. Born small and underweight, like a raisin under a gray
blanket in my black and white baby photos, I looked sunken until I hit puberty, no matter what
she fed me or in what quantity. My mother, though, never looked sunken, even in her worst
moods. Her skin always looked tan, her features sharp and her gray eyes clear. Her thin frame
managed enough curves to keep her from appearing too skinny.
She decorated my bedroom with yellow wood furniture and carpeting that turned brown by the
doorway. The wallpaper was striped yellow and green. No flowers. No pink. A gender-neutral
haven for me in my formative years. Her own room was decorated with hefty wood, dark wool
afghans, and a shaggy brown rug. Nothing too feminine.
That’s how she dressed, too. Her clothes in muted colors looked serious. Her high, defined
cheekbones and sturdy chin seemed to cooperate in denying any femininity. She had no time
for makeup or time-consuming hairstyles, but I could tell by the way strangers looked at her that
she was an attractive woman.
My mother had movement. People stared at the way she walked or lifted an object or how the
wind blew her blond hair across her face. When she carried her coffee mug to her thin lips, you
couldn’t help but watch the mug’s path, the curl of her fingers around the handle, the purse of
her lips as she blew inside to cool the hot brown stuff. She was beautiful when she was in
motion.
But when she was still, her hair settled on her neck, her gray eyes darkened, and her hands
looked bony and long. She described herself as very Shiksa-looking, which I thought was my
religion until years later I asked the librarian for a book on Shiksa-ism and she set me straight.
My dad, on the other hand, was all dark – hair, eyebrows and the stubble on his face that
emerged by lunchtime. In a picture of a trip to the beach that sat in a wooden frame on the
bookshelf, the black curls on his legs, arms, and even hands contrasted sharply against the light
down on my mother and me.
I had a friend Tracey who lived across the street. My mother and I would go over there together.

While the grown-ups drank coffee and ate cake, Tracey and I played with girlie toys that I
usually had no access to at home: Barbies with all the accessories; dolls that wet their pants or
regrew their hair after haircuts; and jewelry making kits that produced clunky pink bracelets and
rings. I knew I was supposed to look down on such gender-specific toys, which made playing
with them that much more fun. Besides, Tracey did anything I told her to. I controlled our
games.
Tracey’s mom, Chrissy, would get down on her knees and show us how to mix and match
Barbie’s clothes, and then she’d grab Tracey and rub her tummy until she laughed. When she
tickled me too, I would giggle while my mom remained in her chair, her hot coffee still in her
hand, looking down at us smiling. Then she would ask Tracey to show me her books.
By the time I started nursery school, I could read the Golden Book series to the other kids. I
remember having confidence way back then of my power over my peers. They sat around me in
a semi-circle and listened quietly as I read, their eyes on me, not the pictures. The teachers told
my parents that I showed promise and moved me to pre-kindergarten.
My father taught me numbers, and soon I was adding. My mother would put me in the cart when
she went grocery shopping, and by the time I was five, I would add the prices for her. Of course,
I made mistakes, and remember crying because the decimal point that came between the dollar
and the cents sides baffled me.
When I went to kindergarten, my mother went back to work full-time. She started to complain to
my father that he had to help around the house more. They spent Sundays doing laundry,
cleaning the house and having grown-up time, while I played at Tracey’s. At her Catholic school,
she could only wear blue, gray or white clothes, and so we played dress up in the most
outlandish outfits. Chrissy would find us, trapped on the high bathtub rim from where we had
tried to see ourselves in the mirror. She would peel off the layers of the odd clothes, leaving us
in Tracey’s ballet uniforms that we wore during these games, and sit us down at the kitchen
table with milk, cookies, paper and a box of 144 crayons that astounded me by its opportunities.
Tracey drew pictures of us in our outfits, the heads, hands, and feet always too big. I sketched
tall women with blond hair falling from the sky into the mouths of flames. With over twenty
shades of orange and red to work with, I tried to perfect the fire each time. My mother refused to
tape the pictures on the refrigerator, so I kept them in a pile in my desk drawer.
Sometimes, I stood in the kitchen doorway watching my mother and my dad make dinner. My
mother would cry as my father held her against his chest for what seemed like a long time, or
until something on the stove started smoking. They were about the same height, about 5’9”, and
she stooped a little when he cradled her head in his neck, her arms around his shoulders, his
hands gripping each other at the small of her back. I could see my father’s face through strands
of my mom’s blond hair, the shadow of a beard showing, his teeth biting his lower lip and his
eyes focused on me. I hated that look of helplessness on my father’s face and my mother’s
weakness for causing it.
No one knew for sure what made her so sad as if it was some outside, uncontrollable,
indiscernible force. The years passed, and as I grew bigger, my mother cried more and more
frequently. She started missing dinner once and then twice a week for mysterious appointments.
She would come home after I was already in my room for the night, and I heard the pouring of
coffee and my parents’ low voices in the kitchen until I fell asleep. On those nights my father
and I ate simple dinners of spaghetti and salad. He’d ask me questions about school and draw
diagrams and word problems to show why subtraction was important, and what ancient history
has to do with today. I loved those evenings so much; I secretly hoped my mother would have
her appointments every night.

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