“That’s not a career.”
“It’s employment,” Marianne said.
“There are concerns you don’t understand.”
“What concerns?”
I asked.
Mom folded her hands.
“You’ve always had difficulties.”
I waited.
She looked at Dad.
He said, “The episodes.”
“What episodes?”
“When you were little.”
The room went quiet.
Something cold moved through me.
When I was little, I cried when they left the room.
I cried because sometimes they didn’t come back until morning.
I cried because Dad drove away once while I was still trying to fasten my seat belt, and Mom slapped my hand when I reached for her.
Those were the episodes.
They had frightened a child, abandoned her, and returned seventeen years later calling the damage a diagnosis.
Nora turned another page.
Attached was a statement bearing Chloe’s signature.
I looked up.
My sister’s face had gone gray.
“You signed this?”
