And since then, my mother, Margaret, had changed.
She became distant.
Cold.
Almost as if my father's death had turned her into someone I didn't recognize.
“Where are you?” I asked Lily.
“Outside.”
“Why?”
“I came home from school.”
My voice trembled.
“Go knock on the door.”
“I did.”
“Did Grandma answer?”
“No.”
“Is anyone inside?”
“I can hear the television.”
I closed my eyes.
“Call Aunt Karen.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“She said she was busy.”
I felt panic rising in my chest.
“Lily, stay somewhere safe. I'm coming.”
I left the hospital before my shift was over.
My supervisor started to object, but one look at my face stopped him.
I drove through the rain as fast as I safely could.
When I finally reached the house, my heart shattered.
Lily was sitting on the front steps.
Soaking wet.
Her school uniform clung to her arms.
Her backpack was pressed against her chest.
Her hair was dripping onto her face.
Her lips were pale from the cold.
I jumped out of the car and ran toward her.
“Oh, baby…”
She stood up and immediately wrapped her arms around me.
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
I pulled her closer.
“Why are you apologizing?”
She looked toward the front door.
MY 11-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER CAME HOME SOAKING WET—BUT HER KEY WOULDN’T WORK. THEN MY OWN MOTHER TOLD HER, “YOU DON’T LIVE HERE ANYMORE.”
