I kept both hands folded in front of me.
“I’d like the children to come over for Sunday dinner.”
She just shook her head.
“No.”
She just shook her head.
From the hallway, I heard my youngest granddaughter laugh. That small sound passed through the doorway and landed somewhere under my ribs.
“I’ll wait for Edward,” I said.
Brittany stepped onto the porch and pulled the door partly closed behind her.
“You don’t get to show up and act wounded, Mary.”
I looked at her then.
“I’ll wait for Edward.”
For the first time, I noticed how tired she seemed beneath the perfect makeup. How quickly her eyes moved toward the front window, checking reflections, angles, and what could be seen.
“I am wounded,” I admitted.
That seemed to annoy her more than anger would have.
Before she could answer, Edward’s truck pulled into the driveway.
“I am wounded.”
My son stepped out carrying a grocery bag and wearing the bewildered expression men wear when they sense trouble but cannot yet name it.
“Mom?”
I took the folded screenshot from my purse and handed it to him.
Brittany froze. “Mary, what is that?”
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