I spent my life breaking my back to send my son to law school so he’d never have to eat dust like I did — at eighty-two, he drove me onto a lonely Arizona road, shoved a plastic grocery bag and a rusty red hen into my arms, and left me there, never guessing the yellowed paper he’d thrown in that bag could tear his perfect world apart.
He never thought the hand he had held during childbirth would become the fist that threw him onto the dusty…