A Step Toward Redemption
Sandy's story was of a rough life, one I have heard before though I still found interesting. She was forty-five years old with a six-year-old child she rarely saw, living in a room at an elderly couple's house, working two part-time jobs for a wage made only more minimum after the government took a slice. The hard lines on her face told a story of their own, one of alcohol abuse and possibly drugs. They weren't laugh lines around her mouth, but frown lines.
Sandy was lively enough though, the type of person who wouldn't let you know how much she hurt inside for fear of ruining a perfectly good time, because in her world good times were far and few between.
After a few drinks we decided it was time for bed. Jill gave Sandy a blanket and pillow telling her she could sleep on the couch.
"I'll give you a ride back to your car in the morning," I said just before Jill and I went into our bedroom.
When I woke in the morning, Sandy was gone, the blanket she slept in neatly folded on the couch.
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