“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
She came in.
No music swelled. No one burst into forgiveness. Emma did not hug her. Noah did not hand over his compass. Dad did not take her hand. I did not suddenly become a daughter without scars.
But my mother ate one pancake from a paper plate while sitting on a folding chair near the door. She thanked Noah for telling her where the napkins were. She told Emma the fox letter was true. She did not mention the past until Emma asked.
Then Emma, with the ruthless clarity of children, said, “Why didn’t you give us Great-Grandma Rose’s presents?”
The cottage went quiet.
My mother set down her fork.
Her face paled.
For a second, I saw the old reflex rise. Explanation. Defense. Injury.
Then she looked at my daughter and told the truth.
“Because I was jealous.”
Emma frowned. “Of kids?”
