Dawn's desk was empty Monday morning. Her husband got orders to Fort Drum, and she was gone before I could say goodbye.
We'd shared that counter for eleven years. She knew which customers would ask for the senior discount before they even opened their mouths.
I went home that night and the landline rang. It only rings once a year now, always the week before Christmas.
It's Mrs. Chen. She was my childhood best friend's mother, and my friend moved away in 1987. But Mrs. Chen still calls, still asks if I'm warm enough, still tells me she's proud of me.
I don't know how she keeps my number. I don't know how she remembers. But every December, there she is, voice crackling like a radio from another life.
Dawn promised to write. She'll probably forget. People do. But Mrs. Chen never forgot, not once in thirty-eight years.
That's what family is, I think. Not the blood. The ones who still call when there's no reason to.