“You mean he answered me,” I said.
Dad rubbed his forehead.
“We knew you were safe here.”
“Did you ever ask?”
He said nothing.
“Did you ever call to ask whether I was sick?
Whether I had friends?
Whether I needed shoes?”
Mom’s eyes sharpened.
“We don’t have to sit here being punished.”
“No,” I said.
“You don’t.”
I stood.
My knees shook, but they held.
“You need to leave.”
Dad stared at me.
“This is your family.”
I looked at Grandpa’s chair.
Then at the pencil cup full of the cheap pens he liked because they never leaked.
“I know what family looks like.”
Mom picked up her purse.
At the doorway, she turned.
“You’ll regret this when you’re alone.”
The words landed exactly where she intended.
Then I heard myself answer.
“I was alone with you.
I wasn’t alone with him.”
