“It lasted four days.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
Every woman in my life seemed to have joined the same interrogation program.
“I don’t know.”
“Did she hurt you?”
“Yes.”
“Did she mean to?”
“No.”
“Do you miss her?”
I looked toward Rosa.
She had become deeply invested in reorganizing the sugar packets.
“Yes.”
Mom exhaled softly.
“Come home.”
My first instinct was refusal.
I had work.
Students.
A schedule.
Captain Pancake’s nutritional supervision.
All the useful walls I had built around my life.
Then I thought of Rachel saying strangers might search for Molly.
Of the message I had ignored three years earlier.
Of my parents learning about my life through a video filmed by someone selling honey.
“I don’t want reporters near you,” I said.
“Neither do I.”
“They may call.”
“I raised two daughters. I can hang up a telephone.”
A small ache opened beneath my ribs.
Two daughters.
Present tense in habit, if not fact.
