I had spent my life being told family was blood, obligation, appearance. Family was showing up at Christmas in matching sweaters. Family was smiling through insults. Family was pretending cruelty was concern.
But Gerald had appeared from nowhere and protected my life before he had proof I belonged to him.
I turned to Maria.
“He can stay.”
Gerald sat down again.
And for the first time in my life, someone stayed because I asked.
My mother returned at noon.
I was asleep when she entered, but I woke to the sharp click of her heels.
Some sounds have memories attached to them. My mother’s footsteps were one of them. Growing up, I could tell by the speed of those clicks whether she was angry, disappointed, or about to perform kindness for an audience.
Today, the clicks were quick.
Angry.
I opened my eyes.
Eleanor Crawford stood in the doorway wearing a cream blouse, gold earrings, and the expression of a woman who had been insulted by reality. Behind her hovered my father, Richard, tall and stiff, holding a paper coffee cup as if he wished it were something stronger.
And beside them, one hand on her swollen belly, was Claire.
My sister.