My parents moved into Rachel’s cramped townhouse, and within a month she called, her voice smaller than I had ever heard it. They were already telling her what to buy and what her daughters deserved. I listened without rescuing her.
The charges ended in a plea, a fine, and mandatory counseling, and my mother’s handwritten letter arrived in November. It did not use the word sorry, but it used my name, and it mentioned Lily’s. I kept it in a drawer, unanswered, the way you keep a fragile thing until you know how much weight it can hold.
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