The realization didn’t excuse Denise. But it reshaped the hurt in a way Leah hadn’t anticipated. Her mother hadn’t only failed to protect her daughter. She had been diminishing herself by degrees, and Leah had been an easy target because she and Denise occupied the same kind of role in Raymond’s estimation: people who did not require consideration.
Three days after Trevor’s call, Denise appeared at Leah’s apartment.
She had come alone, without Raymond, which meant something. She looked older without the performance she maintained in company, smaller too — the practiced brightness stripped away, leaving someone who had not slept well and knew it.
Leah let her in, though every instinct said to wait.
Denise stood in the living room and looked around at the things she had always minimized: the shelves of technical reference books, the secondary monitor for analysis work, the framed certifications on the far wall, the entire organized life of a person whose profession she had spent years treating as a hobby.
“I didn’t realize,” she said.
Leah folded her arms. “Didn’t realize what?”
“How serious your work is.” Denise’s voice was careful. “Or how cruel he sounded. Maybe both.”