But I had never considered what happened when I was not there.
I carried her back to the edge of the bed and put the walker directly in front of her. She reached for the handles with both hands and held them tightly.
“Does she hide it?” I asked.
My daughter shook her head.
“She just takes it.”
There was something about that answer that frightened me more than an accusation would have.
My daughter was not describing a dramatic incident. She was describing a routine.
Every time I left.
I looked at the folded walker, then at my daughter’s face.
“How long?”
She lowered her eyes.
“I don’t know.”
“Did you tell her to give it back?”
“She said I was being difficult.”
The woman beside the dresser finally spoke.
“She was refusing to cooperate.”
I turned toward her.
“With what?”
She did not answer immediately.
My daughter did.
