“Yes.”
“Did you know what she bought it for?”
“No.”
Mom did.
I saw it on her face.
“You knew.”
She cried.
“She told me once.”
“What?”
“That Stacey needed somewhere you couldn't throw her out of.”
Ruth's eyes flashed.
Mom looked down.
“I was angry.”
“Why?”
“Because she made me sound cruel.”
I stared.
“You locked the outside of my bedroom.”
Mom sobbed.
“I know.”
“You made me keep my toothbrush in my car.”
“I know.”
“You charged me rent.”
“I know.”
“You removed me from Grandma's obituary.”
Her face collapsed.
“That was your father.”
Dad said:
“We couldn't risk—”
I stood.
“No.”
He stopped.
“Do not turn my grandmother's obituary into risk management.”
My voice shook.
“Her final public record said she had one grandson.”
“You made me stand at the back of her funeral like a stranger.”
Dad's eyes filled.
“I am sorry.”
I believed he regretted being there.
