She could tell me what point she wanted to make.
But none of those things would change the image in my mind.
An eight-year-old taking a three-year-old by the hand.
Walking away from a closed door.
Not knowing the neighborhood.
Not knowing the way home.
Still trying.
Then carrying her.
Still trying.
Until neither little girl could keep going.
I pressed the phone to my ear.
My mother had demanded it from my father because she wanted to speak for herself.
So I let her.
But first, I repeated my question.
Slowly this time.
“You knew they had nowhere to go.”
My husband didn’t take his eyes off me.
“You knew their dad was in the hospital.”
Silence on the line.
“You knew they didn’t know the way home.”
I looked toward the hallway where our daughters were being cared for.
Then I asked it again.
“Why did you close the door?”
