My mama’s singing had power. Real power.

She’d start every song with a low round note, then slide it upward to a high lonesome sound and hold it there, letting it shiver against her ribs, before she sent the note whirling down into the melody.

The actors they’ve hired to play the Thompsons are all wrong. I can see them from my bedroom window, the living room lit up, the curtains open the way they never were when Angie and her family lived there.