My name is Isabella Stanford and I sometimes talk with a stutter. Momma drove drunk through a red light and in front of a produce delivery truck. I remember looking over while they wheeled me to the ambulance and seeing the mural of corn, lettuce, and tomatoes. Momma didn't go to jail because Deputy Ronnie showed up and kept the other police away. They were drinking buddies and sometimes went bar-hopping in his Sheriff's car. At the hospital, they put me into a coma and cut off the top of my skull because my brain was swelling. When I woke up, they had put my head back on, but it was my tenth birthday and I was back in diapers.

My Dad wasn't much, but his mother started coming to the nursing home where I did my rehab. Once I got into a wheelchair, she and her attorneys got Momma to let me go home with her. Saturday mornings we visited on the front porch. Dad showed up whenever he needed money from Granny. Gradually, my balance got better and I learned to walk with a cane that had spider feet on the bottom. My hands work and I learned to type, then to code. At seventeen, I got my GED and a job and, a year later, an IT job with the state of Arkansas. I type slow, but I don't ever pause, and that makes up the difference.

Years went by where I didn't hear from Momma. Nothing but second-hand stories. Then, out of the blue, she starts following my Instagram. Now I get these AOL emails from her with religious attachments that fail the virus scan. She mainly critiques what I post online, saying that the road to Hell is as wide as the Los Angeles freeway. With the help of her and the Lord, she says, I can be lifted up from damnation. If I ask, all will be forgiven.

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