Still mornings when I reached for my phone before remembering there was no number I could call.
But now, when I thought about June Callaway, I no longer saw only the exhausted woman sorting bills at our kitchen table.
I saw a twenty-two-year-old writing an angry letter to a newspaper.
A young mother painting a community room.
A woman brave enough to leave something she loved when her family needed her.
A friend who regretted losing touch.
A person who had made imperfect choices for understandable reasons.
A whole woman.
Not merely my mother.
Understanding that felt like meeting her again.
A few weeks after opening night, I found Harlan in the lobby staring at a problem.
A new brass plaque had been mounted beside the entrance.
MERIDIAN COMMUNITY STEWARDSHIP ROOM.
Below it were two names.
ELEANOR VOSS
JUNE CALLAWAY
I stood beside him.
“You did this?”
“The board did.”
