Kayla stared at the carpet.
“Kayla.”
She whispered something.
Graham leaned forward.
“What?”
“Twenty years ago.”
The room seemed to shrink.
Graham looked as though he had been struck.
“Twenty years?”
Kayla began crying.
“I was young.”
“You told me you visited them.”
“I was embarrassed.”
“You told me Jennifer called when my mother died.”
Kayla covered her face.
“I didn’t know how to explain everything.”
Lizzie’s voice was quiet.
“You could have tried telling the truth.”
Kayla wiped her cheeks.
“I always thought I’d reconnect when you were older.”
Jennifer frowned.
“Why older?”
Kayla hesitated.
And then, perhaps because she was exhausted or cornered or simply incapable of hearing herself clearly, she gave the most truthful answer she’d offered all weekend.
“Because grown children are easier.”
Silence.
Lizzie’s face changed.
Not rage.
Not tears.
Something colder.
Understanding.
“Yes,” she said softly.
“We’re easier now because Grandma already did everything difficult.”
