“You just tried to take that photograph out of my hand.”
“We have guests arriving tomorrow.”
“No, we don’t.”
“You had no right to cancel that party.”
“And you apparently have something you’ve been hiding from me for 60 years.”
Mom turned to me. “Would you give us a minute?”
I started for the doorway, but Dad stopped me. “She’s our daughter. Thomas is her uncle. If this concerns him, she stays.”
For several seconds, Mom said nothing. Then she looked down at her hands.
“I didn’t fall off my bicycle.”
That was the story I’d heard my entire life: Mom, 16, loose gravel, over the handlebars, a nose that never healed quite straight.
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