That hurt. Not because she was wrong, but because she was right and I had forced an entire younger generation to watch me ignore it.
We had tea together. When she left, she hugged me longer than usual.
At the door she hesitated.
“I’m not choosing sides,” she said. “They’re still my parents.”
“You don’t have to choose sides,” I told her. “Just keep your own soul clean.”
She nodded and kissed my cheek.
That evening Lorine Campbell arrived carrying a basket with homemade blackberry jam, a sleeve of crackers, and the kind of expression best friends wear when they already know something is wrong and have come prepared to stay.
Lorine and I had been friends since the years when our husbands were both still alive and our children still needed us every hour. She had sat next to me in hospital waiting rooms, church funeral lunches, school gymnasiums, and one humiliating PTA meeting back in 1989 when Garrett got suspended for mouthing off to a teacher he later admitted deserved it. She was blunt where I was diplomatic, suspicious where I was trusting, and fiercely loyal in a way that often sounded rude until you needed it.
She hugged me once, took one look at my face, and said, “All right. Tell me.”