Then something in you refuses the old reflex. You are tired of protecting other people from the truth of what they have done. So you set your purse on the counter and say, very calmly, “My daughter-in-law is entertaining guests in my house and informed me there was no room for me.”
Mrs. Porter blinks. “Your house?”
“My house.”
The woman’s mouth tightens with a local sort of outrage. This town has changed over the years, but not so much that people no longer understand what it means to be turned away from your own front porch. She gives you the room with the window facing the dunes and tells her husband to carry your bag upstairs. You thank her, then close the room door behind you and finally let yourself sit on the bed.
The crying comes then.
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