“We stepped up.”
Brooke smirked.
“Not everyone can disappear to Singapore and send money every month like that counts as love.”
I ignored her.
Instead, I looked at Mom.
“Has a neurologist actually diagnosed dementia?”
Darren shrugged.
“Doctors. Specialists. Whatever. Same difference.”
“What medication is she taking?”
He put down his fork.
“Why are you interrogating me?”
“I’m asking about our mother.”
“Our mother?”
His voice sharpened.
“I’m the one who stayed here.”
There it was.
The performance cracked.
After dinner, I found Mom folding towels in the laundry room.
Once Darren and Brooke had gone upstairs, I sat on the floor beside her.
“Do you remember Dad’s red truck?”
Her hands stopped.
“The one with the broken radio?”
I nodded.
She looked toward me.
For the first time, something flickered in her eyes.
“Claire hated that truck,” she whispered.
My eyes began burning.
“I did.”
Her trembling hand slowly moved toward my face.
