“Always making everything about yourself.”
The three messages sat on the screen like a family vote.
Brooklyn noticed my hand trembling.
“Mommy, why are you shaking?”
I turned the phone facedown on the blanket.
“Just messages from Grandma. Nothing important.”
“Is Grandma coming to see Rosalie?”
That question hurt more than anything my mother had written.
To Brooklyn, Grandma meant cinnamon cookies, shiny birthday cards, shopping trips, and five-dollar bills tucked inside envelopes.
She knew the version of my mother who smiled for pictures and remembered which toy she wanted.
She did not know the woman who made affection feel conditional.
She did not know how quickly kindness became punishment when someone refused a favor.
“I don’t think so, honey,” I said.
Brooklyn looked at the incubator.
“But Rosalie is sick.”
“I know.”
“Doesn’t Grandma want to help?”
Nothing honest could come out of my mouth without hurting her, so I did what I had done for years.
