For fifteen years, I had answered their doors and demands too quickly.
When I finally opened it, Genevieve’s practiced smile arrived first—thin, bright, and already tired.
“Marianne,” she said, using my first name instead of Mom or Mrs. Kelley.
Benjamin stood behind her wearing the same expression he had as a child after breaking something valuable and hoping silence might repair it.
Clara slipped around them and ran into my arms.
“Grandma!” she cried out.
Her hair smelled of rain and grape shampoo. Her little body pressed against my knees, and for one dangerous second, I softened in the old familiar way.
I kissed her head.
ello, my sweet girl,” I whispered.
Genevieve entered without invitation, her expensive powdery perfume preceding her like flowers that had never touched soil.
“We need to have a serious talk about this,” she said.
Benjamin finally spoke. “Mother, what on earth did you do to our accounts?”
I looked past them at the gray sky, rain-heavy hydrangeas, and the mailbox Thomas painted bright blue because he thought white ones looked smug.
Then I closed the door.
