“I hate the idea of strangers,” Carrie admitted one night, rocking Maxine as she drifted to sleep. “She’s still so little.” Mike knew what she meant. He pictured drop-offs, unfamiliar hands, rooms full of crying children.
The thought made his stomach knot. That was when Carrie suggested her mother. Eleanor Whitman had never been cruel. That wasn’t the problem. She was precise. Opinionated. Certain.