“You kept coming in here when she wasn’t home.”
“I know.”
“You called me your daughter.”
“I know.”
“I thought you were practicing.”
Stephanie folded forward.
“I know.”
I stepped between them.
“Enough.”
She looked up.
“What happens now?”
I already knew.
“No more Fridays.”
“What happens now?”
“Anna.”
“You won’t babysit Bev alone.”
“You can’t erase seven years.”
“I can’t. And I won’t. But right now, we need space.”
“After everything I’ve done for you?”
“I’m grateful for all of it. But gratitude isn’t ownership.”
“You won’t babysit Bev alone.”
“I never said I owned her.”
“No. You just started calling yourself her mother.”
Her face tightened.
“You used to say I was practically her second mom.”
“I know.”
“You said she was mine on Fridays. How was I supposed to know where the line was?”
“You used to say I was practically her second mom.”
I stared at her.
“You knew where it was.”
She looked away.
“That’s why you locked the door.”
Silence.
“You knew enough to hide it from me.”
“You knew where it was.”
“You don’t understand what it was like.”
“Then tell me.”
“I’d hear you complain about sick days, laundry, getting up early. I’d have given anything for that.”
