It’s finally Thanksgiving. My first visitation since Miranda stole custody. School’s out the entire week, so I pack up the car on Tuesday morning with a suitcase of clothes, a cooler of food and water, the shoebox of letters to my kids, and a heart full of hope I’ve missed for so long, and I drive north. I drive eleven hours before I give up and stop at a rest area and let sleep consume me for several hours making the final few hours of driving possible. My legs ache when I pull up to the gate in front of Miranda’s address, and eyestrain has launched the indignant insurgency taking place inside my skull, a violent thumping. The pain is easily pushed aside by excitement, though. My kids, my kids, are on the other side of that fence, inside that house, waiting for me. I call Miranda’s cell. No answer. I call her house phone and the housekeeper answers, “Buckingham residence.”
