While my 8-year-old daughter was in the hospital fighting for her life, my parents sold our belongings and gave our room to my sister because I was late with one payment.

from dreams she could not explain. Some nights she asked if hospitals could take children back.

“No,” I told her every time. “You are home.”

One Saturday afternoon, we ran into my parents at a fall festival downtown.

I had known it might happen eventually. Portland was big enough to disappear in and small enough to surprise you at the worst possible moment.continue reading …