Lily selected the smallest upstairs bedroom because its window faced a maple tree.
“This is my tree,” she announced.
“It belongs to the yard,” Ethan said.
“So it’s my yard tree.”
“Fair enough.”
While we were unpacking the kitchen, a car turned into the driveway.
Mom.
Ethan looked toward me.
“I’ll handle it.”
I walked outside before she reached the door.
Diane was perfectly dressed, as usual.
Her coat was buttoned up to her throat.
Her lipstick looked freshly applied.
If someone had photographed her standing there, nobody would have guessed our family was falling apart.
“So this is it,” she said, studying the house.
“This is it.”
“Four bedrooms for three people.”
“We have an office and a guest room.”
She smiled without warmth.
“Must be nice.”
I remained silent.
She looked beyond me toward the front windows.
“Your father is selling our house.”
“I heard.”
“He’s blaming me.”
“I’m not involved in that decision.”
“You caused it.”
“No.”
“If you had helped—”
“No.”
Her eyes narrowed.
I had spent most of my life filling every silence around my mother.
Explaining.
Defending.
Softening my words so she wouldn’t become angry.
I did none of that now.
