Richard’s jaw clenched.
“I protected him.”
“No,” Vivian said. “You protected yourself.”
That was the first time I understood that silence could be inherited like a disease.
They took Richard Turner out through our front door while neighbors peeked from behind curtains. Vivian followed the officers voluntarily. Before she left, she stopped beside me.
Her makeup had streaked down her face.
“I am sorry,” she said.
The words were too small.
So small they almost disappeared before reaching me.
I looked at her.
“Did you know?”
She lowered her eyes.
“I suspected.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Her lips trembled.
“Yes.”
My mother inhaled sharply.
Vivian closed her purse with shaking fingers.
“He was my husband.”
“I was nine.”
She flinched.
Good.
I wanted the words to land somewhere.
When they left, the house became too quiet.
My mother stood in the middle of the kitchen, one hand pressed to her chest. I could not look at her because if I did, I would remember all the nights she blamed herself for sleeping through smoke when the truth was that someone had chosen our house, our kitchen, our lives.
