“I started to.” Lauren’s voice was very small. “He said not to. He said you were embarrassed about it, that you didn’t want Aunt Rachel to know you were helping him, because she’d give you a hard time. He said if I brought it up you’d feel ashamed and maybe change your mind, and then they’d have nowhere to go. He said, ‘Please, Laur. Just this once, let me and your mom handle our own business.’”
Rachel made a sound under her breath that I won’t repeat.
“So I gave it to him,” Lauren said. “I’m so sorry. Mom, I’m so, so sorry. I thought I was helping. I thought you two were finally being nice to each other.”
I looked out the window.
I thought about Lauren at eight years old, standing in the doorway of our bedroom while Mark and I argued in hushed voices. Lauren at twelve, bringing me a cup of tea after Mark slammed the front door and drove off. Lauren at sixteen, asking me in the car one day, “Why do you always say sorry to Dad when he’s the one who was mean?”
