I looked at my mother.
She was looking at the table.
That silence, that studied avoidance, cut somewhere deeper than the words had. Megan was Megan. I had understood her for thirty years. But my mother’s deliberate non-response was a choice, a small and cowardly decision made in real time, and I felt it settle into my chest like a stone.
Megan continued, warming to her audience, her voice carrying a light, teasing quality that made the cruelty sound like affection if you weren’t listening carefully. She said I lived out of a duffel bag anyway. She said the cabin was perfect for someone like me. She suggested I would enjoy chopping firewood. She said, with the finality of someone closing a transaction, that no one would even notice if I disappeared up there.
I stood, picked up my jacket, and walked out.
