“Emily,” I said, “who is Daniel?”
Silence.
A very specific silence.
Not confusion.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
My stomach dropped.
“Emily?”
“Mom, where are you?”
“In Chicago.”
Another pause.
Then her voice changed.
“Are you still at the hotel?”
My fingers tightened around the photograph.
“How do you know I’m at a hotel?”
She didn’t answer.
“Emily.”
“Mom, please.”
“Who is Daniel?”
I heard her exhale.
Then, very quietly, she asked, “Did you meet him last night?”
The room seemed to tilt beneath me.
“You know him.”
“Mom—”
“You know him.”
“I know who he is.”
I stood so quickly that the sheet slid from my lap.
“How?”
“Please sit down.”
“No.”
“Mom.”
“Tell me who he is.”
Emily went silent again.
I looked toward the empty side of the bed.
Hours earlier, Daniel had slept there.
He had held me.
He had brushed a strand of hair away from my face and told me I was beautiful in a way that had sounded sincere enough to break something open inside me.
