Her face changed.
“What forms?”
“I don’t know. Not all of them.”
“Kesha.”
The fear in her voice made me look away.
“I was twenty-six, Marianne. Pregnant with quadruplets. My husband told me I was unstable, paranoid, hormonal. He controlled every account, every appointment, every conversation with his family. By the time I realized I needed to leave, I was already alone.”
She covered her mouth.
“I didn’t know.”
“No,” I said. “You didn’t ask.”
It was not cruel.
It was simply true.
She accepted it like a wound she deserved.
After a long moment, she crossed the room and took something from the desk drawer. A small brass key on a faded ribbon.
“This house has a west guest wing,” she said. “Private entrance. Four bedrooms. Stay tonight. Please. Not for me. For them.”
“I don’t need charity.”
“It isn’t charity.” Her voice shook. “It is the first decent thing I have been allowed to offer my grandchildren.”
