Because they had never been shocked by pain.
Only by consequences.
Evelyn stepped inside without asking permission. She carried a leather folder and an old tin box with faded roses painted across the lid. My mother stared at the box as if it had risen from a grave.
“Where did you get that?” she whispered.
“Your mother gave it to me before she died.”
“That belongs to me.”
“No,” Evelyn said. “It belongs to Julia.”
Brent ran a hand over his face. “This is ridiculous. We’re not doing some New Year’s Day soap opera.”
“You’ve been living in one for fifteen years,” Evelyn replied. “I am only reading the final act.”
My father sank onto the bottom stair.
That frightened my mother more than anything else.
“David,” she said.
He did not answer.
Evelyn placed the tin box on the hallway table, right beside the crystal bowl where my mother kept decorative pinecones and emergency candy she never let my children touch. Then Evelyn opened her folder.
