Sister Charlie died the week I turned seven. Hate killed her, or so I’d heard. Whether it was hers or my own, I wasn’t quite sure.
For three days the nuns herded us into the Chapel to visit her body. And for two hours on each of those days, I knelt before dead Sister Charlie and worried about Hell.
Hers and mine.
KIM MICHELE RICHARDSON
Author of The Unbreakable Child