I turned around and looked at her.
“Didn’t you hear him?” I said. “‘Mommy’s downstairs.’ Those were my husband’s words. Not yours. At least he knows Sophie’s mother is downstairs.”
The smile on June’s face stopped. One second.
Then she put the sponge on the edge of the sink, walked over to me, voice soft and sweet again. “So what if he said it? When he carried the child downstairs, he never once looked back at you. He’s just like you. All talk.”
She slid past me, pushed open the kitchen door, and left it half open.
I stood in the kitchen. The tap wasn’t shut all the way. A single drop fell into the sink. One sharp, clean sound.
Derek’s voice came up from downstairs. “Mia? You coming down?”
I walked to the stairs. The lights were on, one landing after another.
I didn’t go down. I didn’t go up.For the next few days, I went upstairs every morning to get Sophie. Every time, June was standing in the doorway, blocking it. Sophie ate breakfast upstairs. Took her nap upstairs. I saw her maybe a few minutes a day — a “Mommy!” from the top of the stairs, and then June pulling her back inside.
