My father slid a waiver across the table at his own seventieth birthday dinner, nine relatives watching, and told me to sign my $640,000 third of the restaurant over to my little sister. “Go find out what you’re worth without our name,” he said. It took me nineteen seconds, and by morning he was the one calling me.
Twenty-seven years I’d kept that restaurant’s books, every Sunday night, and never once sent anybody a bill.
Dad had the waiver clipped to one of our own laminated menus, like it was the fish fry special.
“Sign where the yellow flags are,” he said. “Sabrina’s lawyer did all the work.”
My sister sat right next to him with her chin on her fist, smiling with every tooth she had.
Mom kept folding her napkin into a smaller and smaller square.
Uncle Cillian put his fork down on top of his walleye and left it there.
“Jesus, Ken,” he said. “Tonight?”
“She doesn’t work here,” Dad said. “Sabrina works here. She’s on that floor five nights a week.”
She was at the host stand five nights a week, on her phone. But sure.
“She earned it.”
Sabrina took a pen out of her blazer pocket, a fat silver one with Pfaff’s printed down the side, and clicked it twice.
“Come on, Joysie,” she said. “You’ve told half of Sheboygan you don’t need us.”
Joysie.
Nobody had called me that since fourth grade.
Dad put a hand on her shoulder.
“You’ve got your little spreadsheet company,” he said to me. “Go play with that. The club goes to the one who actually shows up.”
My little spreadsheet company.
I’m forty-six. It still lands.
When Sabrina put the catering van through the garage door in 2019, Dad said that could happen to anybody.
When I found $41,000 missing from the bar deposits two springs ago, Dad said I should’ve caught it sooner.
He never asked who took it.
At my thirtieth, he raised his glass and called me “the one who counts other people’s money,” and the whole bar laughed.
I laughed too. It was easier.
Now Sabrina slid the pen across the tablecloth and held the waiver flat with two fingers.
“Unless you’re scared you’ll actually need it,” she said.
I picked the pen up.
Her smile got wider.
Dad had his whole face ready for a fight. He’d probably rehearsed it in the walk-in cooler.
“Which pages?” I said.
Sabrina’s smile slipped a quarter inch.
“What?”
“You clipped it to a menu, Dad. I figured somebody put little flags on it.”
Somebody had. Yellow ones.
Signature on the first page. Initials on the third and the fourth. The date on the back.
“Nineteen seconds,” Niamh said, holding up her phone.
She’s fifteen. She times everything.
Nobody told her to put it away.
I capped the pen and stood it next to Sabrina’s Manhattan.
Dad looked at my name like it was written in another language.
“That’s it?”
“You decided before I took my coat off,” I said.
“This is about who carries this place.”
“Then you finally got something right.”
Mom said my name. Just once.
Dad’s voice went low and flat. “Leave tonight, and in March you don’t get to ask me to tear it up.”
I got my coat off the hook by the cigarette machine nobody has fed since 1994.
“I won’t.”
For a second, standing behind Sabrina’s chair, I almost said it.
Lakeshore Parcel.
The bank auction twenty months ago, after Dad missed four mortgage payments on this building and told nobody at that table.
Aileen Jiang, my partner, bidding from her car in the bank’s parking lot while I sat beside her doing the math on a napkin.
The lease Dad signed with “the bank’s new landlord” without reading past page two, because the rent dropped to $3,100 a month and he bragged that he’d gotten a family rate.
The going rate on that corner is $11,800.
And Rider B, which Aileen typed and Dad initialed without looking. The family rate held only as long as JOY PFAFF owned a share of the business.
Instead I leaned down and kissed Dad on the cheek.
“Happy birthday,” I said.
He thinks I rent the top half of a duplex because I can’t do better.
I own both halves. The woman downstairs teaches piano and pays on the third of every month, never the first.
He thinks my company is me and a laptop.
There are fourteen of us. We keep the books for sixty-two restaurants in three counties.
He never asked. NOT ONCE.
At 8:06 the next morning, Aileen called while I was still in my robe.
“Sabrina’s lawyer emailed the signed waiver to the bank at eight sharp,” she said. “The bank copied the landlord.”
“Okay.”
“Joy. We’re the landlord.”
“I know.”
“Rider B kicks in. The family rate is GONE on the first.”
I turned my mug around by the handle.
“Do you want me to hold the notice a few days?” she said.
“Send it.”
My phone lit up on the counter.
DAD.
I let it ring out.
It started again before the screen went dark.
By ten-fifteen I had twenty-three missed calls from a man who’d spent forty-six years not needing me for anything.
Then a text.
WHO IS LAKESHORE PARCEL. CALL ME.
I was still looking at it when the second one came in, from Sabrina.
“Please don’t tell him about the deposits.”
Ten-seventeen, my kitchen
The deposits were the $41,000.
Sabrina took it. All of it, a few hundred at a time, over one winter and into a spring, out of the vinyl bank bag she was supposed to carry to the night drop after she closed.
I know because she told me.
Two springs ago, in the walk-in cooler, with her back against the lettuce cases and her mascara down to her chin.
First she said it was a guy. Then she said it was the casino up by Carter. Then she said it didn’t matter, and that part was true.
I wrote a cashier’s check for $41,000 out of my own savings the next morning. Payroll cleared that Friday. Nobody’s check bounced, not the dishwashers, not the cook who’d been there since the Carter administration.
And I promised her I would never tell Dad.
I kept that promise for two years. I kept it last night with a pen in my hand and every reason in the world not to.
So I stood in my kitchen in my robe and read her text again.
Please don’t tell him about the deposits.
She knew I’d kept it. She’d watched me keep it at Easter, at the Fourth, at every Sunday dinner where Dad called me the one who counts other people’s money.
Downstairs the piano started. The woman runs scales on Monday mornings before her first student shows up. Same four bars, up and down, a little faster each time.
My phone buzzed against the counter.
Sabrina again. “Joy please.”
Then, a few seconds later: “I’ll fix it.”
Fix what? The $41,000 had been fixed for two years. I fixed it. I had the bank receipt in a folder in my desk with her name nowhere on it.
I called Aileen back.
She picked up on the first ring, which meant she’d been waiting.
“He called you,” she said.
“Twenty-three times. What bank did Sabrina’s lawyer send it to?”
“Not the one that foreclosed. A different one. A savings bank in Manitowoc.” I could hear her clicking. “The loan officer’s name is Tyree. He’s the one who copied us.”
“Why would a loan officer need my waiver?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it.”
The piano stopped in the middle of a bar.
Why would a bank in Manitowoc need my signature by eight o’clock on a Monday?
The adding machine
The first Sunday I did the books at Pfaff’s, I was nineteen and home from my first semester at UW-Oshkosh with a C in accounting I was ashamed of.
Grandpa Pfaff sat me down in the office behind the bar. It’s the size of a closet. It still smells like fryer oil and Pine-Sol.
He put a green ledger in front of me and an adding machine with a paper tape that curled onto the floor.
“Everything goes in the book,” he said. “Even the ugly. Especially the ugly.”
Then he went out front and left me with three weeks of receipts in a Folgers can.
Dad was behind the bar that night, like every night. I could hear him through the wall.
Everybody in Sheboygan knew Ken Pfaff. He remembered your drink if you’d had it once in 1988. Brandy Manhattan, extra cherry, for Mrs. Kowalczyk. A Spotted Cow and a shot of Korbel for the Lutheran pastor, who wanted nobody to mention it.
People came in for the walleye and stayed for him. He’d put his hand on your back and say your mother’s name.
He never once came into that office on a Sunday night while I was working. He’d stick his head around the door at closing and say, “You done counting?” and turn off the light in the hallway before I was out.
Twenty-seven years of that.
Grandpa died when I was twenty-four. Dad took over the bar, the building, the mortgage Grandpa had taken out to redo the roof. I kept doing the books, because somebody had to, and because Dad couldn’t make the adding machine work and wouldn’t admit it.
Dad doesn’t read anything he signs.
He won’t wear his reading glasses in front of people. He keeps them in the glovebox of his truck like they’re something to be ashamed of. If a salesman put a contract in front of him at the bar, he’d flip to the last page and sign it with whatever pen was in his shirt pocket.
“If I know the guy, I don’t need to read it,” he’d say. “If I don’t know the guy, I don’t sign.”
That’s how he signed a lease with the bank’s new landlord without knowing the new landlord was me.
The bank letters started showing up on Sunday nights about three years ago. I opened the mail. That was part of it. Second notice. Third notice. Notice of default.
Dad had stuffed the first two in the drawer under the register and they’d fallen behind it, and I found them with a broom.
When I asked him, he said it was handled.
It wasn’t handled. Four payments behind. The bank set an auction date.
I called Aileen. We’d started the firm together when I was thirty-two and she was forty-eight and we were both tired of working for a man in Plymouth who called us “the girls.” She’s the one who does the hard conversations. I’m the one who does the math.
We sat in her car in the bank lot the morning of the auction. She bid on her phone. I did the numbers on a napkin from the coffee place, because I’d left my notebook on the counter at home.
We got the building for less than what Grandpa had borrowed against it.
It was Aileen who wrote Rider B.
“We are not giving your father a rate we wouldn’t give our own mothers,” she said, “unless you’re in it. If they ever cut you out, it goes to market. I’m not subsidizing people who’d do that to you.”
I said they’d never do that.
She typed it anyway.
And the $41,000.
When I found the shortage two springs ago, I did what Grandpa told me. I put it in the book.
The cashier’s check went into the club account on a Tuesday, and on Sunday I wrote the line in the green ledger in blue pen, in my own hand: Owner contribution, J.P., $41,000.
Nobody looks at that ledger but me. That was the point.
At ten-forty that Monday morning, I got dressed, put the ledger’s last copy in my bag, and drove across town.
Tyree’s email
Aileen had the email up on the big monitor in her office when I got there. She’d made coffee. She doesn’t make coffee.
“Read it from the top,” she said.
It was from Tyree, the loan officer, to Sabrina’s lawyer, a man named Bellini with an office over a dentist on Eighth Street. We’d been copied in the second message down.
Pfaff’s Supper Club LLC had applied for a line of credit. Two hundred and twenty thousand dollars.
The application was signed by Kenneth Pfaff and Sabrina Pfaff, two of the three members.
The bank’s condition, typed right there in a bullet in the middle of the email: all members of the LLC must sign, or any non-signing member must waive their interest before closing.
That was me. I was the non-signing member.
Until about nine-forty last night.
“And there’s this,” Aileen said, scrolling. “Because the club doesn’t own the building anymore, the bank wants the landlord’s written consent before it’ll lend against the business. Equipment, the liquor license, everything inside the walls. That’s why they copied us. Tyree’s waiting on Lakeshore.”
“How long do we have?”
“Fourteen days, per the lease. Then silence counts as consent.”
I sat down in the chair across from her.
“Purpose of loan,” Aileen read. “Working capital.” She took her glasses off. “Joy, it’s February. Lent starts in two weeks. That place does more fish fries between Ash Wednesday and Easter than the rest of the year combined. Why does Ken need working capital in February?”
I didn’t know.
That was what bothered me. I’d done those books eight days ago. The club was tight. It’s always tight in winter. But it wasn’t two hundred and twenty thousand dollars tight.
Aileen leaned back.
“We deny it,” she said. “Today. One paragraph. Landlord declines consent. We don’t have to give a reason.”
“Then he finds out it’s me.”
“He finds out it’s you on the first of the month anyway. When the rent goes to eleven-eight.”
“I want to know what the money’s for first.”
“Why?”
Because somebody at that table needed my signature badly enough to give my father his whole face for a fight. Because Sabrina was begging me about something I’d already buried.
I didn’t say that. I picked up my phone and called Dad back.
It rang four times.
“He’s lying down,” Sabrina said.
Her voice was thick, like she’d been crying, or yelling, or both.
“Put him on.”
“His blood pressure’s through the roof, Joy. You did this. Whoever this Lakeshore thing is, you did it somehow.”
“What’s the two hundred and twenty thousand for, Sabrina?”
Nothing on the line. I could hear the dishwasher running in the club’s kitchen behind her. They’re closed Mondays, but somebody always runs the machine.
“Are you going to tell him?” she said.
“What’s the money for?”
“You promised.”
“I kept it. Last night I kept it. What’s the money for?”
She hung up.
Aileen was watching me over her coffee.
“So,” she said. “Not working capital.”
Uncle Cillian on my stairs
He was sitting on the outside stairs up to my half of the duplex when I got home at one. He had a kringle from the bakery on Michigan Avenue in a white box on his knees, the pecan kind, which nobody in our family eats but him.
“Your father called me at nine,” he said. “Screaming about some company I never heard of.”
“Come up.”
He climbed the stairs slower than he used to. He’s sixty-six. He spent forty years as a claims adjuster for an insurance company in Sheboygan Falls, walking around other people’s wrecked cars and flooded basements.
He sat at my kitchen table and opened the kringle box and didn’t eat any.
“Is it you?” he said.
“Is what me?”
“Lakeshore Parcel.”
I poured him a coffee.
He laughed once, through his nose, and shook his head at the kringle.
“Forty-six years,” he said. “And he thinks you rent this place.”
Then he stopped laughing.
“That’s not why I came,” he said. “Joy. Did you know about the house?”
“What house?”
“Their house. Ken and Edith’s. On Lake Shore.”
I grew up in that house. Three bedrooms, one bathroom, a basement that took water every April. My parents paid it off in 2011. I know because I wrote the check for the last payment out of their account while Mom stood behind me and cried.
“I was over there Saturday for the Badgers game,” Cillian said. “Ken had a guy come by the house at halftime. Young guy. Bank guy, nice shoes.”
“Tyree.”
“I didn’t get his name. He had a folder. Ken put it on the kitchen table, flipped it open to the back, signed it. Then he slid it over to your mother.”
He took his phone out. He’s always taking his phone out. Forty years of photographing bent bumpers, he says. You never know what you’ll need.
“Edith asked me to look at it,” he said. “She said, ‘Cillian, you know papers.’ I got as far as the first page and Ken came back from the door and took it out of my hands. Said it was for the new walk-in cooler and repaving the lot. Said don’t be an old woman about it.”
“Did Mom sign?”
“She signed.”
He didn’t look at me. He looked at the kringle.
“I snapped the first page while Ken was walking the bank guy out,” he said. “I don’t know why. Habit.”
He turned the phone around and slid it across my table.
It was blurry at the top, like he’d done it fast. But the middle was clear.
Personal Guaranty. Pfaff’s Supper Club LLC. Two hundred and twenty thousand dollars. Collateral, real property.
The address of the house on Lake Shore.
Mom’s name was on the line marked Guarantor. Below it, Dad’s.
I’d paid that house off for them with my own hand in 2011.
“Did she read it?” I said.
“She read the first line. Ken was standing behind her.”
“Did he tell her about the building? The foreclosure?”
Cillian looked up at me.
“What foreclosure?”
So Mom didn’t know. Mom didn’t know they’d lost the building twenty months ago. She didn’t know Dad had missed four payments on the bank’s letters behind the register. And on Saturday, at halftime, she’d put the house she raised us in behind a loan for a business that didn’t own its own walls.
For working capital.
For a new walk-in cooler.
Cillian took the phone back and put it in his shirt pocket.
“I told her to call you,” he said. “She said you were busy.”
There it was.
Mom’s name on the guarantor line, and under it, the address of the house I grew up in.
Page three
Pfaff’s is closed Mondays. I still had my key.
I let myself in the back at three o’clock, past the dumpster and the stack of empty beer kegs nobody had called for.
The office was the way I’d left it eight days ago. The adding machine. The green ledger on its shelf. Above it, the banker boxes of deposit carbons, one for every year since Grandpa started making everybody fill them out.
Whoever closes fills out the slip. Cash count, checks, cards. They initial it, tear off the top copy for the bank bag, and leave the carbon in the tray. On Sunday nights I match the carbons against the register tapes.
I’d stopped matching Sabrina’s.
That’s the ugly part. After the walk-in, after the check, I stopped. I’d look at the totals on her nights and see they were close and move on. I’d forgiven her, and you don’t keep auditing somebody you’ve forgiven.
I took down the box for this winter and the register tapes clipped behind it.
I started with Thanksgiving week.
Wednesday before Thanksgiving, Sabrina closed. Register said $4,212 in cash. The carbon said $3,812. Her initials. S.P.
Friday. Register $3,960. Carbon $3,560. S.P.
Saturday. A night Dad closed. To the dollar.
I went through December on the adding machine. The tape curled onto the floor the way it did when I was nineteen.
Four hundred here. Three hundred. Six hundred on New Year’s Eve.
By the second week of February it came to $38,700.
Almost the same number as the first time.
So that was the working capital. Sabrina was short again, and the hole was big enough that by April the beer distributor wouldn’t unload and payroll wouldn’t clear. And this time I wasn’t going to write the check, because this time nobody had told me.
They’d decided to borrow it instead. Against the house on Lake Shore.
But they didn’t need my third to borrow. They needed my waiver. And a waiver of a third of a restaurant is two pages, not four.
The loan file was on Dad’s side of the desk, under a Packers mug full of pens. Bellini had sent over the original, the one I’d signed on the menu, and Dad put it in the file to give back to the bank.
I took it out and put it under the desk lamp.
Page one. My signature in Sabrina’s silver ink.
Page two. The transfer. My third, to her.
Page three.
Section 7. Release. Member hereby releases and forever discharges the Company, its managers and each of its remaining members from any and all claims, known or unknown, arising from the management, custody, deposit or handling of Company funds prior to the effective date of this Waiver.
Next to it, my initials. J.P.
The yellow flag was still on it.
I’d initialed it at the table with nine people watching. I’d been so busy not giving Dad his fight that I’d signed where the flags were and never read the third page.
The one who counts other people’s money.
Page four. Section 9. Books and Records. Member surrenders all keys, passwords, ledgers and records of the Company and agrees not to retain copies.
J.P.
So that was what the waiver was for. It wasn’t about who carries the place.
Sabrina’s lawyer had built it to take the bookkeeper out of the office and make sure she could never ask about the money, before the Sunday she sat down and found it.
And my father had handed it to me on a menu at his birthday, and his name was on that loan file under hers, and Mom’s name was on the guarantee.
I took a picture of page three. I put the carbons for this winter in my bag, with the register tapes. I put the green ledger in too.
Then I stood there with my hand on the light switch.
The back door opened.
Sabrina stood in it in her parka, holding the vinyl bank bag.
The back room, six o’clock
She didn’t run. I’ll give her that.
She looked at the box on the desk and the ledger in my bag and the light that was on, and she sat down on the step stool by the door and held the bank bag in her lap like a cat.
“I was going to put it back,” she said.
“With what?”
“With the loan.”
“With Mom’s house.”
She looked at the floor.
“Phone him,” I said. “Tell him the back room at six. Tell him to bring Mom.”
She did. I listened to her do it.
They came at five minutes after. Dad in his good coat over a sweatshirt, Mom behind him with her purse held in front of her in both hands. Cillian came in a minute later. I’d called him from the parking lot.
The back room was the same back room. Same white cloth on the long table. Same mounted muskie over the door that Grandpa swore he caught on the Flambeau and probably bought at a garage sale in Antigo.
Dad didn’t sit.
“Who the hell is Lakeshore Parcel?” he said.
“Me and Aileen.”
He looked at me like he hadn’t heard it.
“You,” he said.
“We bought the building at auction twenty months ago. After the fourth missed payment.”
Mom turned and looked at him.
“What missed payments, Ken?”
“Don’t.” He pointed at me. “You went behind my back. Behind your mother’s back. You bought my father’s building out from under me and let me sit here and pay you rent like a, like some…”
“Three thousand one hundred a month.”
“Like a sucker. In my own father’s building. And you sat at my birthday and let me give you that waiver, and you signed it, and you went home and sent me a notice. On my birthday.”
“The day after.”
“Don’t you correct me.”
I put Aileen’s letter on the tablecloth. One paragraph, on Lakeshore’s letterhead, signed by both of us at four-thirty that afternoon. Landlord declines consent to any lien against the tenant’s business or property at 418 Indiana Avenue.
Dad didn’t pick it up. He doesn’t read things.
“Tyree can’t close without it,” I said. “The loan’s dead.”
“You don’t know a goddamn thing about that loan.”
“I know it’s against the house.”
Mom put her purse down on the table.
“Joy,” Sabrina said from the end of the table. “You promised.”
“I haven’t told him anything.”
Then Dad laughed.
It was the laugh from my thirtieth, the one he did for the bar. He pulled out his chair and finally sat down in it, at the head, where he’d sat the night before.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Sabrina,” he said. “I know about the deposits.”
Nobody moved. Sabrina’s mouth came open.
“You think I can’t read a book in my own office?” he said. “Your sister writes everything down. That’s her whole problem. She leaves it on a shelf like a diary. I go in there Monday mornings while she’s off counting other people’s money and I read it.”
He looked at me.
“Owner contribution, J.P., forty-one thousand. In blue pen. I knew the day you wrote it. And I knew who took it, because who else closes on Fridays.”
“You told me I should have caught it sooner,” I said.
“You should have. You’re the one with the company. You could afford it. Sabrina couldn’t.”
“She took it again.”
“I know she took it again. I’m not blind.” He slapped the table, not hard. “That’s what the loan is for. You fix it quietly and you move on. That’s what a family does. And you weren’t going to fix it this time. I could see it on you at Christmas. You’d started looking at her nights again.”
I hadn’t. I’d stopped. But he’d been reading my book every Monday, and he’d decided I had.
“So you took me out,” I said.
“I took you out of the office. You’ve got your own office. You’ve got fourteen people, apparently.” He said it like it was a fault. “You didn’t need us. You said so all over town.”
“And Mom’s house?”
“It’s my house.”
“It’s in both our names, Ken,” Mom said. “That’s why you needed me to sign.”
She hadn’t raised her voice. Her hands were flat on the cloth on either side of her purse.
“You told Cillian it was for the cooler,” she said.
“It is for the cooler. Among things.”
“You let her take forty-one thousand dollars, and you let Joy put it back, and then you sat in our kitchen and told me I was being an old woman.”
“I never said that to you. I said it to Cillian.”
Cillian snorted, once.
“Edith,” Dad said. “This is the business. You’ve never understood the business.”
Mom watched him a while. Then she turned to me.
“Is it dead?” she said. “The loan. Really?”
“Unless the landlord signs.”
“So sign it,” Dad said to me. “You want to be the landlord, be the landlord. Sign the thing and keep your mother’s house out of your little war.”
“No.”
“Then the club’s done by Easter. You understand that? The beer guy’s already on cash-on-delivery. You’ll have killed your grandfather’s place to make a point.”
“You can pay eleven-eight on the first,” I said. “Or you can find another building.”
“Joy.”
That was Mom.
I waited for the rest of it.
She picked up her purse, stood, and walked around the table to the far end where Sabrina sat on her stool by the door. She held out her hand.
Sabrina looked up at her and then gave her the bank bag.
Mom put it on the table in front of Dad.
“There’s your working capital,” she said.
He didn’t look at it.
He looked at me.
“Leave the key,” he said. “You signed that too, page four. Not March. Not Easter. Not ever.”
I took the key to the back door off my ring. Twenty-seven years. It’s a Schlage with a dot of red nail polish on it so I could find it in the dark.
I put it on top of Aileen’s letter.
“Happy birthday, Dad,” I said.
The third of March
The family rate went away on the first.
On the second, a check came to Lakeshore’s post office box for $11,800. Pfaff’s Supper Club on the top corner. Dad’s signature, big and slanted, the way he signs everything without reading it. Nothing on the memo line.
Cillian says the line for the fish fry went out the door and down past the dentist’s on the first Friday of Lent. He says Dad’s working the host stand himself. He says Sabrina’s in the kitchen now, on the fryer, where the cash doesn’t go.
I haven’t been back to see it.
Sunday nights are long. I do other people’s books at my own table now, and I go to bed at ten.
On the third, the envelope from downstairs came under my door at eight in the morning, the way it always does. Never the first.
At six that night, somebody knocked.
It was Mom, in her good coat, with a folder from the credit union under her arm.
She sat down at my kitchen table and took her coat off and laid it over the chair. She’d never been up my stairs before. She looked at the ceiling and the window and the little radiator under it like she was trying to price them.
“Cillian says you own the whole house,” she said.
“Both halves.”
“Huh.”
She laid the folder open. Account forms. A signature card. A new checking account, in one name. EDITH M. PFAFF, sole owner.
She slid it across the table to me.
“Show me where, Joy.”
I slid it back.
“Read it first, Mom. All of it.”
She looked at me for a second. Then she took her reading glasses out of her purse, put them on, and turned to page two.
If you’ve ever been the one in your family who reads every page, I hope somebody finally reads yours.
Family entitlement has a way of turning one bad dinner into a much bigger reckoning – like in “My Brother Slept On My Couch Five Weeks And Asked What I Really Do”. For more family drama over who gets what, see “We Brought Shayla Home At Three Days Old. Now Another Woman Wants Her Dress.” and “I Was Buying My Mother-In-Law’s Kolaches When Her Son Cuffed Me”.
