I had spent years learning that sound.
When Tessa broke one of my dolls and told our mother I had thrown it at her, my mother made that sound.
When Tessa read my private messages in high school and called it concern, my mother made that sound.
When Tessa told a table full of relatives that I was “too emotional to joke with,” and everyone looked at me because my face had changed, my mother made that sound.
It was the sound of the verdict arriving before the trial.
Tessa was funny.
Tessa was bold.
Tessa was just being Tessa.
I was sensitive.
I was dramatic.
I was the problem because I bled where people could see it.
My mother called that keeping peace.
Peace, in our house, had always meant everyone stepping around Tessa while I apologized for the floor being red.
I wanted to ask my mother if she had been afraid when the hospital called.
