“Did your grandmother ever force it down YOUR throat?” I asked from the doorway.
June turned, gave me a look, then smiled at Derek. “See? Here we go again. I keep telling her it’s medicine—she insists I poured it down her throat. Your wife’s been running a fever for two days. Her brain’s cooked. I don’t blame her.”
Derek stood there holding the glass, not moving. I watched him. I hoped he’d say something.
What he said was: “Mom, go on up. We’ll have the porridge later.”
“Fine.” June wiped her hands. “Then I’ll take Sophie upstairs this afternoon for a couple of hours. She’s been cooped up in this house, bored out of her mind.”
“No,” I said.
“Derek?” June wasn’t looking at me anymore. She was looking at him. “I’m asking you.”
Derek looked at me. Then at Sophie’s door. “…Just a few hours,” he said.
I remember I didn’t get angry. I didn’t even have the energy to be angry. I watched him hand over his daughter’s afternoon like it was a piece of paper.
