Outside, our neighbor’s sprinkler ticked across the lawn. Inside, the swimsuit dripped one slow drop onto the linoleum.
I called Brittany because I was raised to give people room to become better than their worst sentence.
She answered on the fourth ring.
“How are you, honey?” I asked.
There was a little laugh on the other end.
“Oh, now you want to play sweet grandma?”
“How are you, honey?”
I looked at George. His lips thinned out.
“Brittany, I saw the comment.”
“So? You embarrassed this family online,” she snapped. “My children do not need to see that kind of behavior normalized. Stay away from them.”
I sat straighter.
“What kind of behavior?”
“Posting inappropriate pictures. At your age.”
“You embarrassed this family online.”
At your age.
Those three words had a way of making a woman inventory herself without wanting to.
Arms. Neck. Stomach. Knees.
All the places time had written without asking.
“Are you saying I can’t see the kids? Because of my post?”
Brittany did not hesitate.
“Exactly.”
Then the call ended.
“Are you saying I can’t see the kids?”
I kept the phone pressed to my ear for another second, listening to nothing.
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