“I wondered where those came from.”
Mom smiled.
“She was always hungry.”
“She thought breakfast counted as a personality.”
“She got that from your father.”
From downstairs, Dad called, “I heard that.”
“You were supposed to,” Mom shouted.
The house settled again.
I looked at the photograph.
“I should have come home more.”
“Yes.”
I turned toward her.
“You could pretend to consider my feelings.”
“I am considering them. You should still have come home.”
Fair.
“I thought being here would make everything worse.”
“Did it?”
“At first.”
“And now?”
The room was full of Molly.
Her face.
Her scarf downstairs.
The old stories waiting in every drawer.
“It still hurts.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
My family had formed an alliance against evasive answers.
“No,” I said. “Being here doesn’t make it worse.”
Mom nodded.
“We miss her whether you visit or not.”
“I know.”
