The Closure of St. Jerome's Home for Foundlings
Blind and overlooked, Lucy Victoria learns to read the world around her. And waits to find out if anyone will choose to read her back.
1955
The whispers from the other six girls in my work group swirled around as we learned to sew by darning clothes (or so it was claimed). The sound formed a layer of noise that set me apart, forcing me to sort each girl’s voice from the others one by one. Margaret and Bernadette expounded upon the positive qualities of Marlon Brando. Elizabeth, who snuck with George into a showing of East of Eden, was going on—and on, and on—about James Dean. Veronica and Helen, both younger than I, kept adding their thoughts to the debate like dashes of seasoning, as important as salt and pepper. My best friend Agnes giggled along with the rest, as if she knew what they were talking about.
Personally, I did not care for actors, so I had nothing to add to their conversation. Maybe if they were talking about Sinatra, Crosby, or Autry? There were things I loved about each. The local music stations played the current trends frequently enough that I could recognize each singer by a single note. Elizabeth bought albums on my behalf, though I had to borrow Mr. Murphy’s phonograph to play them.
A set of footsteps echoed across the common room. The hard-soled shoes clearly belonged to an adult. Light and quick: it had to be the new teacher, Miss Wagner. Mrs. Murphy’s tread was far heavier, and Minnie’s pace was much slower. Anyway, Minnie would not be outside the kitchen so early in the day. Through the chatter, I focused on the footsteps; their direction placed the teacher approaching behind us, through the classroom—though I was not limited, as the other girls were, to the things in front of my face. It was something people often did not take into account, given my circumstances.
“Yes, Miss Wagner?” I spoke up while she was still approaching. The other girls immediately hushed, unwilling to share their points of view in front of any of the staff—except around Minnie and Luther, but they were different for some reason I never fathomed. There was a strong enough silence among us that all seven needles were distinct as they passed through material.
“Miss Victoria,” Miss Wagner said, in a way I was still working on decoding. The sighted had the advantage of body language to interpret what people are thinking; I only had vocal cues. Plus some other indicators I was still learning, like how Mr. Murphy tapped his feet when he got nervous. Miss Wagner continued to approach, close enough for me to catch a whiff of her jasmine perfume. She barely used any, so it added a light touch to the room. Mrs. Murphy, on the other hand, used far too much lavender. “May we speak in private?”
Agnes gasped, bless her heart, but the others did not react audibly.
I had little reason to worry. Miss Wagner did not handle disciplining of the wards—the Murphys alone doled out the punishments unsparingly—so I was not in trouble. Within St. Jerome's Home for Foundlings, everyone had their roles and duties. The teacher taught, the cook cooked, and the wards pressed on until released into the world, much like infants thrown into the deep end of the pool. A rare few were saved by Divine Intervention in the form of couples, often unable to bear children and willing to adopt older children. The rest of us lived and learned, relying on one another and the tithes of the Church for our survival.
As the name said, it was a home for foundlings: orphans and those otherwise abandoned children who found themselves wards of the state of Maryland. Some had no one left alive for them in the outside world. Some had living families—prisoners, mental patients, and the like—but were better off apart from them, whether the children accepted the truth of their situation or not. And some, like me, would never know one way or the other.
I was found in one of the confessionals of the Baltimore Basilica on May 8, 1945. My primary “sin” was being born without sight. Germany surrendered that same day, providing inspiration for my name: Lucy for the patron saint of the blind, Victoria for victory. Everyone who came into the Home received a new name along with their new life. Even the older kids; the adults believed in giving us a fresh start, our futures unburdened by the past.
Except everything was changing. Earlier that week, our director, Mr. Walsh—a pleasant tenor voice with a long and heavy stride, who frequently smelled earthy (I asked him once; he called it “musk”)—introduced Miss Wagner as our new teacher. He also explained what would happen over the upcoming years. “Orphanages like St. Jerome’s are being replaced with a much better concept: group homes. There needs to be time to develop the new group homes, though. So, we'll be transitioning everyone out of St. Jerome’s over the next three years. No more new wards will come in; you will be the last fifty to be housed in this building. As each group home opens, a select few will move into it. Eventually, you will all either be adopted, age out, or be re-homed into them.”
I raised my hand. “What about me, sir?”
Mr. Walsh was confused. “What about you, Miss Victoria?”
“Next month I will be ten. Since nobody is going to adopt me, I will be a burden at a group home. And after that, then what?”
He sighed, as he always did when he was annoyed at one of the wards, the sound of his fingers rubbing his stubble. “Miss Victoria, trust me. You'll be taken care of, I promise you that.”
I gave Agnes a reassuring pat on the leg and handed her my darning. “Of course, Miss Wagner.” I stood, offering my left arm for the teacher to grip between my elbow and shoulder. I got around well with my cane—I’d been at the Home long enough to know most of it by feel, sound, and smell—but to move quickly, it was easier to let others guide my way. Miss Wagner had a gentle touch, soft but firm, her fingers barely pressing into my muscles as she led me out of the room.
We sat in the classroom—the smell of chalk in the air and the feel of linoleum underfoot—with Miss Wagner facing me. “I’m so sorry, Lucy,” she began, “but I just want to confirm what I read. The reports say you don't participate in morning classes with the other students?”
“No, Miss.” I hesitated, then continued quickly. “At least, not as you would think of it. I sit and listen to everything. There are some kids, like Elizabeth and Agnes, who read books to me as needed. But I neither read nor write myself, obviously. I can do some math in my head, but only counting and simple sums. It… it is difficult to explain.” I turned my head to the side, so my right ear was aimed toward her. I could hear well with either, but it was easier for me to focus when every sound came from a single direction.
She shifted in her seat; the telltale scratching of a pen on paper followed. She asked another question: “Did your previous teachers ever try anything… different?”
“It has been a while, but the last one to actually try anything else was… Miss Flannery? Yes, when I was four, about six years ago. She had me draw letters and numbers with my fingers, then with crayons. She said it was how Helen Keller learned. I have been told that her experiment was a complete failure.” I smiled. I liked Miss Flannery, despite her having to leave after the breakdown; she smelled of roses or lilies of the valley. Most of the others after her wore vanilla.
While I answered Miss Wagner's question, she moved some small objects around. “Hold out your hands.” I did as she asked, and one at a time she placed two vastly different items into them, one at a time.
The first was a flat metal object: a seam ran along three sides, hinges on the fourth. Too thin to be a box, though. There were rows of holes along the face that formed little divots within. The second was a thick wooden ball, a perfect fit for my palm; it had a thin metal rod extending from the opposite end. I tentatively touched the tip to my arm, but it was blunted.
I set them on the desktop with care. “Miss, what are these?”
“Your left hand has a slate, your right a stylus. Pass them back for a moment.” I returned both, and she fiddled with them, accompanied by the soft whisper of paper. She gave me the page, and across it were now a series of bumps. “Lucy, can you feel those? Can you tell the difference?”
“Yes… and I am not sure. Maybe?” There were tiny variations between each set, though it was not easy to be certain on the first pass.
“It’s called Braille. It’s a writing system for the blind. Have you heard of it?”
“Nobody has mentioned it to me before. Miss.”
There was a catch in her breath and a hesitation in her voice—perhaps caution, maybe hope—making it difficult for me to properly read her. “Well, Lucy, you and I will be learning Braille together, alternating with your other afternoon lessons. Would you like that?”
The jasmine cloud almost embraced me then, far closer and more tender than any previous experience I had with an adult. “Yes, Miss Wagner. If that is what you want, I am willing to learn.”
Six months later, right after The Lone Ranger broadcast on WFBR, the Murphys revealed the first six charges to leave our waning abode.
Outside of imposing discipline, the Murphys acted as our resident caretakers. Mrs. Murphy was loud with a raspy voice; she bathed in lavender to disguise the stench of her cigarettes. Mr. Murphy did not smoke, but he drank liquor, so in the evening his breath reeked of peppermint and whiskey. They were a nice enough couple, not punishing more than was deserved, and they did not diddle any of the wards (from the stories I heard, some were quite happy to have their parents locked away).
Mrs. Murphy said later that she wanted to inform us sooner, but had been ordered to wait until after the show. Some off-duty officers were also there. We were told they were “volunteers” from the diocese, but one addressed another as “Sarge.” Also present was the social worker who visited weekly, Miss Shea, smelling of lemons. The newcomers packed some luggage while we were distracted by Kemosabe and Tonto.
Mr. Murphy read off the list of names. I must admit, Miss Shea chose them well. They were all friendly with each other; Margaret and Bernadette were the best of friends. No complete couples were included, either; the Murphys prevented most serious activities from happening between wards, but I was aware of how often George and Elizabeth snuck off together to canoodle.
Goodbyes were brief. Elizabeth cried because her George was among them, and Mrs. Murphy ushered her away fairly quickly. Mr. Walsh had a few words with George to discourage him from doing anything the elder man deemed “stupid.” Miss Wagner was there as well, as were Minnie and Luther—surprising, as the cook and janitor rarely came to the front. Miss Shea led everyone in a rendition of “Auld Lang Syne,” though only a few kids sang along. The doors banged shut behind the departing people. Then Mr. Murphy ordered the rest to prepare for bed; our eight-thirty lights-out still applied, so we had to rush through our routines in the ten minutes remaining—a difficult enough task for those who could see, much less me.
With that, St. Jerome’s population was reduced to forty-four.
1956
There was only one adoption after the announcement the previous year: Rita Faith—the youngest in the Home, no surprise there. And a pair of boys aged out; both were given arrangements for jobs and apartments before they left. Not the first to be released that way in my lifetime, of course—just the first since the moves to group homes began.
I realized, early on, that the adults who made those decisions failed to take something into account. As I was never asked, I did not share my thoughts with them. What never occurred to them was that St. Jerome’s was our home for most, if not all, of our lives. The kids—and adults, to a degree, but mostly the kids—were the only family most of us ever knew, the only people we ever learned to depend on. Any child who came through those doors became a sibling, one of our brothers or sisters.
More remarkably, those other children took me, a blind kid, in as well. Sure, Agnes loved helping me most often, and Elizabeth mothered me when in the mood. But whenever I needed the others, they helped too. They would read to me, take me places, or help me with difficult tasks—like making sure my clothes did not have holes in them before I wore them. Even the boys could be relied on, and they picked on everyone else. Maybe they did it because they pitied me, but I still appreciated it. The runt of the litter was still a part of the litter.
There was also a secret I had grown privy to. I did not speak to Miss Wagner or Mr. Walsh about what I figured out, but over the course of the year, their scents began to mingle.
This was something I had noticed with other adults I knew to be in relationships. For example, Mrs. Murphy’s lavender often coated Mr. Murphy, nearly hiding the citrusy scent he preferred.
Minnie and Luther were the same, despite never smelling quite like the other adults. And, for some reason, they never made us use their last names, so I had no idea whether they were married or not. But Minnie was a cornucopia of cocoa butter, cooking grease, and corn flour; Luther was predominantly blood, sweat, and oil. And, like the Murphys, each carried faint traces of the other.
Miss Wagner and Mr. Walsh had started to smell similar, their jasmine and musk beginning to blend. I could not help myself; I never meant to be “nosy”—quite literally, as it happens. Those were the types of things I noticed. Especially when Miss Wagner was teaching Braille in the afternoons, leaning over my shoulder like an angel. But it wasn’t just their aromas.
Mr. Walsh and Miss Wagner often arrived at the same time in the mornings. Their voices changed when they talked to each other, the tone less firm and more gentle. The way they moved together—even when heading in different directions—felt like George and Elizabeth dancing at the music showcases, the steps there without the music. Mr. Walsh also frequently visited during our private lessons, while Miss Wagner was focused on me. Though maybe he still blamed me for what happened with Miss Flannery and was afraid I’d drive Miss Wagner round the bend.
I sat through enough of Father Giuseppe’s litanies to know not to mention that sort of behavior to anyone. I kept all of this knowledge and suspicion to myself. I didn’t even tell Agnes, and especially not Elizabeth. I did pray to St. Raphael, seeking a happy marriage on their behalf, but he probably knew already.
Miss Wagner and I continued to work on my skills. She found some books published in Braille, so occasionally I took part in the morning classes as well. I even learned how to write book reports. But the biggest surprise was how she started to teach mathematics to me.
One spring morning, she and Mr. Walsh argued about her wanting to walk across town to Mulberry Street to find a laundromat. I could not figure out why she would need to go there—one of the benefits of having a position in the orphanage was that we had regular courses in housekeeping duties, and everyone took advantage. From the sound of things, he could not comprehend either. But they must have realized the office door was open, because they shut it for the remainder of their discussion. She did not go in the end, but he left the Home for lunch, and she was quite pleased with whatever he brought upon his return.
That afternoon, when I arrived for my Braille lesson, she handed me a frame full of beads instead. There were several rods, and a divider splitting them.
"Hold it in both hands, so the side with fewer beads is at the top." She fiddled with some paperwork at the same time; it sounded like she was trying to read while speaking, but not using the same words. "The bottom side is ones, the top side is fives. Each rod represents a place in the number." By the end of the afternoon, I conquered counting and simple addition. Everybody else called it my counting tool, but she told me it was an abacus from China. By the end of the month, I could add and subtract large numbers, often faster than any of the older kids.
Twelve more members of our dwindling family left the Home through the year: six in the spring, six more in the fall. The September group stood out only because, instead of The Lone Ranger, we listened to a baseball game. Apparently one of the players died in a plane crash the day before, so Mr. Murphy wanted to listen to that game.
Since sports were of no interest to me, I sat in the hall. Which meant my ears caught the noises descending from upstairs: the shuffles and scrapes of people moving through the dorms, the thuds and bangs of footlockers being opened and closed, the clicks and thumps of luggage being packed. It was no surprise when the rest of the adults arrived. Mr. Walsh called out six more names, including Agnes. She started crying, and promised to write to me; I reminded her not to bother, though someone could always read it to me if she did. Miss Shea led the singing of “Auld Lang Syne” again, but very few people joined in.
And that was how they reduced us to twenty-nine.
1957
It was a very busy year for me, though the most notable event over the course of it was when the Russians interrupted our farewell for the fifth group of wards.
Elizabeth aged out at the end of winter. She and George had exchanged letters after he left; she confided in me that they were going to elope. For weeks and months afterward, that was the last thing I knew of her. In all my years at the Home, we never heard anything significant from the outside world other than news broadcasts. We were never informed if former wards survived on their own, and they never returned to report. I said a prayer for Elizabeth and George every night, to both Saints Agnes and Valentine—engaged couples and happy marriages—just in case.
One afternoon in February, Miss Wagner did not have me read Braille or multiply and divide as we had been. Instead, she led me to a different area of the classroom, where the older girls often spent their lessons swallowed in a cloud of clatter and dings. “You’ve mastered reading and writing well enough, and you’re the best computer in the Home. So, Lucy, I think it’s time to teach you how to communicate with the rest of the world.” It was the most confident she’d sounded since her illness the previous summer.
She stood behind me and cradled my wrists, then placed my hands atop several closely spaced buttons. Miss Wagner spread my fingers so that each was positioned in its own spot.
“Relax. Let your fingers curl. Rest the pads on the keys, Lucy, like the way you read your pages.”
Nervous, I stiffened one finger, which struck a key with a loud clack as something hit paper ahead.
“Don’t worry, you didn’t do anything wrong.” Her voice was soft, just over my right shoulder. “This is a typewriter. When you push a key like that, it stamps a letter onto the paper—one that sighted people can read. Some women can type without ever looking at any keys. You’re going to learn to do even better.”
Her jasmine scent eased my mind as she taught me where to find each button. It was not easy, and took many months. But by September, Miss Wagner would read letters from Agnes—she had moved into a foster home, where she was the only child in the house!—and I was able to type my responses.
Toward the beginning of July, Mrs. Murphy taught classes for the first time since Miss Flannery’s incident years earlier. Mrs. Murphy gave no reason for Miss Wagner’s absence. As Mr. Walsh was also absent, no explanation was offered.
I had to join the other girls in the kitchen with Minnie that afternoon, so Elizabeth was guiding me as needed. “I don’t think it’s your fault, Lucy, not this time,” she said.
“Whadja jus’ say, girl?” The cook’s voice was as sharp as one of her knives.
Elizabeth backed away abruptly, leaving my space. “Nothing, ma’am.” There was a tremor of fear in her voice—and nobody ever called Minnie “ma’am.” Considering Minnie was never harsh, Elizabeth was probably as surprised as the rest of us.
I spoke up instead. “She means Miss Flannery, Minnie. We all know that she left because of me.”
This time, the woman’s voice was softer. “Who tol’ you that?”
“Nobody had to tell me. It just makes sense.”
The cook laughed, and a hand slapped the counter. “Girl, that Miss Flannery was already playing tunk with half her deck missin’. She shoul’ never’ve been ‘lowed near you young’uns. That wasn’t yer fault.”
The other girls giggled a little at Minnie’s behavior, the tension dropping significantly. But my own fears were still not settled. “Yes, but what of Miss Wagner?”
Minnie’s laughter stopped. She was serious again, but not angry. “That’s not your fault neither, Luce. Sometimes bad things happen to good people.”
There was a moment of silence, broken by Agnes. “So she’ll be back soon?”
Minnie’s voice was soft again, though not as jovial as before. “Yeah, she’ll be back. That one, I doubt the walls of Jericho coul’ keep her outta this place.”
Minnie was correct. The next day, Mr. Walsh explained that Miss Wagner just had a brief illness, and would be back in no-time, though his somber tone seemed to indicate otherwise. And by the end of the week, Miss Wagner returned, though she never quite sounded the same again. Except sometimes when she and I were in private; then the music would return to her voice.
Over the course of that summer, Mr. Walsh started to talk with me personally, asking my opinions on the latest music and radio shows. I told him what I thought about things, like my fairly high opinions of Elvis Presley and Johnny Mathis. I never heard him talk to the others that way; he rarely dealt with any of us as individuals. Perhaps he did so in private. Or maybe it was just pity again.
On the fourth of October, Paul Harvey interrupted The Lone Ranger to announce that the Russians had sent Sputnik up into space. The older kids wondered if the news meant war would be coming. The younger kids were upset they couldn't find out what happened to Tonto until Monday’s show.
Meanwhile, I was by the stairs eavesdropping on the men packing for that night's group. I was trying to discern who was included in the latest batch. They said the names of Bernard and Helen, so I knew those two without any doubt. Deep down, I was certain they would not include me.
Mr. Murphy came downstairs to see what the commotion at the radio was about. His reactions led to everyone else piling into the argument. All the menfolk argued about Khrushchev, Eisenhower, and Hammarskjöld, whoever those guys were. By the time Bernard, Helen, and their fellow housemates were escorted out by Miss Shea’s solo performance of “Auld Lang Syne,” it was well past ten, officially the latest I ever went to bed.
We were down to fifteen.
There was one other significant event at the end of the year, on Christmas Eve. As much as the visit unsettled me, it had a profound effect on me: George and Elizabeth came to speak to everyone and wish us all a Merry Christmas.
In the past, people who left the Home were gone for good, so it was a pleasant surprise to be in their presence once more. When I heard their voices, I rushed over to where Elizabeth was. It had been almost a year, and I was so worried about what happened while she was away. My prayers for them had been answered.
In the quiet of my heart, I hoped they were there to take me with them—to a new home, a new family. Growing up, Elizabeth always babied me. And I missed her so much; only Miss Wagner had given me more attention and care. But I had known Elizabeth my whole life. I thought I was meant to be with her; with George as well.
But there were subtle differences, too many changes. Her voice didn’t quite sound the same, her scent didn’t quite match what I remembered. When I hugged her, she was far bigger in the belly than she used to be. And inside her body—my head pressed against her in an embrace I refused to release—there lived another heartbeat, rapid and fluttering. That was when I knew she would always be my sister, but only my sister. And she would be a mother, but she would not be my mother. Not anymore.
That night, and for the remainder of the year, I cried myself to sleep.
1958
I was certain there would only be one farewell this year. I knew division by then, and there were only two houses worth of kids to be assigned. Once one group left, the other would stay behind. Except for me. I would always be a remainder of one.
My thirteenth birthday was the day before that separation. Miss Wagner and Mr. Walsh helped with the cake, and they never attended any other wards' birthdays. They gave me birthday presents, too: the latest Ricky Nelson and Perry Como. And their voices caught throughout. After the final ceremony, when everyone was reassigned, I supposed they would miss me.
At lunchtime the day after, Mr. Walsh announced the final two group homes were being settled the coming weekend. As a result of my detective work, it was no surprise to me.
There were no volunteers to help pack; they were not necessary, not this time. Everything was a done deal. Two new adults, a couple introduced as the Grants, were in charge of the next group home. Miss Shea no longer worked with the orphanage, thankfully. Instead of that ridiculous song, we said our goodbyes to each other like normal people.
Once they left, one of the other wards spoke up. “What about the rest of us?”
Mr. Murphy answered. “The missus and I are moving into a group home ourselves. We’ve agreed to take in the rest of you, and we’ll move into the house tomorrow.” The other seven kids were happy, as there were no more goodbyes to worry about. They all scampered off for a free day, since it was the last full day in this place. In the Home. In our home.
I stayed seated in the cafeteria, not sharing the joyous mood. It was not that I minded the Murphys—I did not—but I was not at all surprised to be the last to leave. In three short years, I had said farewell to so many brothers and sisters. It all just washed over me. Like that old song went, “My life is a race, just a wild goose chase, and my dreams have all been denied.”1
The mingled scent of jasmine and musk brought me out of my thoughts as two people sat nearby. I tried to hide my tears. “Miss Wagner? Mr. Walsh?”
“It’s actually Mr. and Mrs. Walsh,” he said. “We’ve been married for a couple of years now. But it's easier to keep using her maiden name among you kids.”
I swallowed my tears and giggled, pleased that I was right. “I prayed that you would. Thank you.”
An amused sigh escaped her while he chuckled.
Mr. Walsh continued. “Clara tells me that you've gotten extremely good at reading and writing with Braille.”
This surprised me. “I suppose? She never tells me one way or the other. She gives me more work to do instead.”
She laughed again, and he sounded… proud? “That’s great. As it happens, Lucy, I have something here that we put into Braille for you. Would you like to read it to us?”
I did not usually read out loud. I had only been reading for three years, and when I did, it was usually just me and Miss—Mrs. Walsh. As a result, I was not very confident. My fingertips passed over the small raised marks, committing them to memory before speaking the words aloud. But the phrasing sounded odd inside my head, nothing like the reading material she had given these past few years. “State of Maryland?” “Baltimore Circuit Court?” Each set of bumps spoke to me—screaming through my fingers—until I was convinced they all must be lies.
“What’s the matter, Lucy?” There was a hint of amusement in her question when I drew back my hand.
“This is all some sort of gag, isn’t it? You’re both having a laugh with me one last time.”
His hand rested on my shoulder, and he squeezed gently. “What makes you say that?”
“Because, sir, I’ll be too much of a burden. I can’t do anything.”
Her voice cut through, like it did when she had to be stern with the other wards. “Just read it aloud to us. Trust us. Trust me.” And there was that tone in her voice again. That one from when we met, three years before. When she first promised to teach me Braille. When she first gave me the abacus. When she taught me how to type. And I suddenly knew what that tone was and what it meant. And how the pages they had given me were as true as the Lone Ranger’s Creed.
I started voicing the words as quickly as my fingers translated them to my brain. “‘We the undersigned, David and Clara Walsh, respectfully request the court to grant the adoption of said minor child, Lucy Victoria, assuming all parental rights…?’”
“If you’d rather live with the Murphys…” she began, but my hug quickly squeezed the breath out of her. He embraced us with both arms, and we all laughed and cried at the same time.
So, as it turned out, Rita Faith was not the last child adopted out of St. Jerome’s Home for Foundlings in Baltimore, Maryland. Instead, it was me. Lucy Victoria Walsh.
1: "I'm Always Chasing Rainbows" (1917), lyrics by Joseph McCarthy. Music by Harry Carroll, adapted from Chopin's "Fantasie-Impromptu."
Editor's Note:
A story earns its ending or it doesn't. This one earns it.
"The Closure of St. Jerome's Home for Foundlings" builds its world entirely through what Lucy Victoria can perceive: jasmine and musk and lavender, the specific weight of footsteps across linoleum, the geometry of a slate and stylus pressed into waiting hands. The author commits to this perspective with a totality that transforms the reading experience. Every sensory detail does double work in establishing character, atmosphere, and the emotional logic of a girl who understands her world more completely than anyone around her realizes.
The structure is deceptively simple. Four years, four sections, a population count ticking steadily downward. What the author tracks beneath that arithmetic is harder to quantify. The slow erosion of a family that was always accidental and always real. The accumulating gravity of every goodbye. Lucy calculates her own remaindering before any adult thinks to tell her. The story gives her that knowledge and then watches what she does with it—which is, essentially, continue. Keep learning. Keep listening. Keep praying to the right saints.
Worth naming directly is how the story handles disability with genuine radicalism. Lucy reads people the way the rest of us only wish we could. Her blindness is the architecture of her authority, the source of everything she knows and everything she withholds. The author trusts her completely, and that trust becomes the reader's as well.—Jon Negroni
Tamsin Liddell was born in Texas and has spent most of her life in the southern US. She lives with her spouse, their daughter, and far too many cats outside of Atlanta, GA.
Support Cetera
Paid members get exclusive perks like bonus stories, the ability to comment, and more. Plus you'd be helping us keep the bills paid. You can check out the subscription tiers below, or you can leave a one-time tip if that works better for you.
