“Everyone except her.”
The words settled between them.
From the adjoining room came the muffled sound of their daughter laughing at something on television. Megan turned her head toward the wall, then lowered her voice.
“She was making the whole trip about herself.”
“She didn’t say anything.”
“She didn’t have to. She always finds a way to make people feel guilty.”
Patrick thought of my messages.
*Enjoy yourselves.*
A thumbs-up from him.
No apology.
At the time, he had considered the exchange finished. Now the words felt less like permission and more like a door closing quietly.
He reached for his phone and called me.
I watched it ring from the small kitchen of my new apartment.
The apartment was on the third floor of a brick building overlooking the town marina. It had two bedrooms, tall windows, and a narrow balcony where I had placed George’s old blue rocking chair.
I had moved there three days earlier with the help of two young men from the moving company and my neighbor, Elaine.
When Patrick’s name appeared, I let the call go to voicemail.
He called again.
Then Megan.
Then Patrick again.
Elaine, who was sorting books into a shelf near the window, glanced at me.
“You don’t have to answer just because they’re calling.”
“I know.”
“Do you want me to take your phone?”
Despite everything, I smiled.
“No. I’m not twelve.”
“Sometimes family has a way of making us feel twelve.”
That was true enough.
The phone stopped ringing.
A minute later, a text appeared.
Mom, we need to discuss this. Please call me.
I set the phone facedown.
Elaine placed a book on the shelf.
“You’re sure you’re all right?”
“No.”
It was the first honest answer I had given anyone that day.
She came over and sat beside me.
