Her breathing changed.
“You hate me.”
“No.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No, Tessa. I don’t hate you.”
“Then stop this.”
“I’m not stopping.”
“Then you hate me.”
“No. I’m just no longer protecting you from reality.”
She hung up.
That afternoon, my mother came to my house.
Clare was napping upstairs.
When I opened the door, Mom looked smaller than usual.
She held her purse against her stomach with both hands.
“Can I come in?”
I hesitated.
“Is Tessa with you?”
“No.”
“Dad?”
“No.”
I stepped aside.
She entered.
For several seconds, she simply looked around.
She and Dad had visited our house maybe six times in four years.
Not because they weren’t invited.
Because it was thirty-five minutes from theirs.
Apparently that was too far to travel unless a birthday cake was involved.
Mom sat at the dining table.
I remained standing.
“Ian,” she said quietly, “what do I have to say to make this stop?”
