There are lies so stupid they insult grief itself. That sentence was one of them. Ava was sitting on a plastic stool beside a stained bucket and two folded changes of clothes. My son smelled faintly of dish soap, spoiled rice, and the trapped heat of a place no child should ever be made to sleep. Brooke was standing over them with a platter of golden food meant for people she considered worthy.
I looked at my mother and said, “Then explain what it is.”
She opened her mouth, but Brooke got there first.
“Oh, please,” she said with a brittle laugh. “Don’t be dramatic. They were eating back here because the party is inside. We didn’t want the kitchen crowded.”
Ava dropped her eyes immediately.
That, more than anything, told me how bad the last five years had been. My wife used to face conflict head-on. She had a laugh that cut through tension and a habit of asking questions people hated answering. Now she folded into herself the second Brooke spoke, like my sister’s voice had become a warning siren.
I walked over to Ava slowly and crouched in front of her.