What can I say about Joyce Reed except to say -- I envy her. I always wanted to be the type of Mom and have the type of house where all the kids hung out and ate cookies after school.

But I'm not, or have not, the house where everybody hangs out. Messes annoy me, I can't tolerate loud noises, and I try to keep junk food out of the house entirely (or I'll eat it all). There are probably more reasons why I never became that type of mom. I'd have to dive deeper, and I never intended to turn this into a big essay.

But I really envy Joyce for being that type of person.

On one of my return visits to the shelter, I found Joyce sitting forlorn -- her eyes wouldn't meet mine. She had a broken collarbone and one of her eyes looked bruised, but she didn't offer any information on what happened. I wondered about her husband and also I wondered about my assumption that her stay at the shelter would be short. Another example of my optimism not panning out.