EVERY TIME I ran out of clean panties and needed to borrow Ma’s, it seemed like I found something she had never meant for me to see. I was running late for school Monday morning, and couldn’t risk the consequences that would accompany a tardy when I already had to explain three unexcused absences. I had found everything from dime bags to seizure notices from Rent-A-Center in that drawer. Today was no exception as I scrambled to get out of the door at the exact minute I needed to in order to be firmly in my algebra seat when the first-period bell rang. On paper ripped from one of my notebooks, Ma had written me a letter. The papers were folded into a tight roll that immediately curled out as soon as I opened the drawer. I saw my name at the top in Ma’s writing, and didn’t bother to read any farther than the first couple of lines before grabbing a pair of black granny drawers. I stuffed the letter in my backpack, knowing I would get home before she did and be able to put it back. My heart pounded and my mind fixated on what it could say during the entire walk to the nearby El station. Stuffed between an elderly woman and a middle-aged factory worker wearing heavy steel-toed boots, I buried my concentration in Ma’s words like I was reading a love letter. Well away from the tail end of the car where other kids my age collected and cursed, I didn’t notice anyone’s entrance or exit, nor did I feel the car’s sudden, screeching stops and starts as it rumbled along wooden tracks. I heard my ma whispering in my ears.

Shivana,