Chapter 11
I left the memorial room for the first time that day and went upstairs to Lucy.
She was sitting on the bed beside Emma.
The first question she asked was:
“Is Mom alive?”
Children deserve fewer lies than adults usually give them.
“Yes.”
Her whole face changed.
Then immediately:
“Where?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
The happiness broke slightly.
“But she called?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t she come home?”
That one hurt.
I sat beside her.
“Because some grown-ups made her afraid she couldn’t.”
Lucy looked confused.
“Of you?”
I swallowed.
“Maybe.”
She touched my hand.
“Did you make her scared?”
No easy answer.
“I didn’t mean to.”
Not enough.
I corrected myself.
“I trusted people I should have questioned sooner.”
She thought about that.
Then looked toward the door.
“Uncle Victor?”
“Yes.”
Her face fell.
Victor had read her bedtime stories.
Brought birthday gifts.
Taken her riding.
Betrayal becomes harder when the betrayer once loved you honestly.
I did not tell her he never loved her.
That would be another lie.
“He did something very wrong,” I said.
“Does Mom hate him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you?”
I almost smiled.
Children ask the question adults perform around.
“I’m angry.”
“That’s not hate.”
“No.”
She accepted that.
Then held out one of the fresh flowers from the memorial table.
“Can Mom have this?”
My throat tightened.
“Yes.”
She smiled.
May you like
Suddenly the memorial flowers were not for the dead.
They were waiting for someone to come home.
