“I won’t be edited by my daughter.”
“Then you won’t be read by my children.”
Her face went white with rage.
“You are cruel.”
“No,” I said. “I am specific.”
I closed the door.
My hands shook afterward. I slid down against the wall and sat on the floor until the trembling stopped.
That night, Emma found me looking at old photos from Grandma Rose’s tin.
There was one of me at seven years old, missing two front teeth, sitting on Grandma’s porch with a bowl of strawberries. I looked happy in the unguarded way children look happy before they learn someone is keeping score.
Emma leaned against my shoulder.
“Is that you?”
“Yes.”
“You look like me.”
I smiled. “You think so?”
“A little. But I have better hair.”
“You absolutely do.”
She studied the photo.
“Was Grandma Margaret mean to you too?”
I did not want to answer.
