“You got bangs.” Her mother stopped in the archway from the kitchen to the living room. “I did.” Poppy passed her fingers through the short fringe of hair. It had been an impulse thing, and she was still getting used to it. “Honey, you don’t look well. What’s wrong?” Her mother came into the living room and sat across from her, worry lines creasing her forehead. Her eyes appeared large and owlish behind her glasses. I screwed up, Mom. I met a guy who was amazing and had to break his promise to me, so I had a total temper tantrum and burned bridges. I’m super mature. “Long week.” She mustered a smile and laid her head against the back of the sofa. “How are things at The House?” Poppy’s mother had raised her in a commune that also owned and ran most of the northern Chicago homeless shelters. They’d never been much better off than the people they were helping, but Poppy never had to go hungry; she’d always had three meals a day. “Oh, same old, same old.”
