The one that meant the conversation was over.
So I stopped asking.
Until that Sunday.
After Grandpa whispered to me, I climbed off his lap.
My mother immediately called me into the kitchen.
“What did he say?”
“Nothing.”
She stopped cutting vegetables.
“Lily.”
I looked at her.
She looked at me.
“Tell me exactly what he said.”
I swallowed.
“He asked if I could sleep beside him tonight.”
The knife in my mother’s hand stopped moving.
She didn’t speak.
“Mom?”
Nothing.
“Mom?”
She put the knife down.
“Did he say anything else?”
“He said not to tell you.”
My mother’s face changed.
Not angry.
Not confused.
Terrified.
“Why would he say that?”
“I don’t know.”
She turned away from me and stared through the kitchen window.
I watched her shoulders rise and fall.
Then she whispered,
“Oh, Dad…”
I didn’t understand.
“What?”
She turned around quickly.
“Nothing.”
“But you said—”
