That almost made Mrs. Holloway cry.
My mother came out of the bathroom toweling off her hair.
She saw Mrs. Holloway, then me, then the phone in my hand.
It took maybe two seconds.
Maybe less.
She didn’t ask for context.
She just whispered, “No.”
It was the kind of no that comes from somewhere old.
Not a decision.
A reflex.
A scar.
She grabbed the phone from me and read until her face went blank in that dangerous way tired people have when they are trying not to break in front of children.
Then she sat down at the table.
Not hard, like she had the morning she first saw the lamp.
Worse.
Slow.
Like her bones had gone missing one by one.
Noah climbed into her lap even though he was getting too big for it.
“What’s wrong?”
She held him so tight he squirmed.
“Nothing you need to carry.”
That was the thing about my mother.
Even with nothing left, she was always still trying to stand between us and the weather.
Mrs. Holloway kept apologizing.
“I swear I didn’t share it. I swear. I would never.”
My mother nodded once.
“I know.”
But she didn’t sound like she knew anything good anymore.
She sounded like a woman counting exits.
My phone buzzed then.
Denise.
I looked at my mother before opening it.
