Susan’s expression shifted.
For the first time, she looked beyond her own fear.
She looked at Dad, still holding the water glass with shaking hands.
At Mom’s worn dress and bruised wrist.
At the hands that had washed her clothes and swept the porch while she drank tea in the shade.
“I didn’t know about that,” she said.
“About what?”
“The work.
I thought they were choosing to help.”
Jessica gave a small, bitter laugh.
“You knew they cooked for you.”
“I thought they wanted to.”
“You knew Mom was washing your clothes.”
Susan’s face tightened.
“She offered.”
“She offered because you told her the washer used too much electricity.”
Susan looked at Mom.
“Is that true?”
Mom said nothing.
The attorney arrived thirty-six minutes later.
His name was Robert Lane, a careful man with gray hair and a canvas briefcase.
He introduced himself to my parents first, then examined the documents without touching the originals.
