“I will need to talk to Emma,” I said, lifting my fork. “I have been staying with her and Tom for three months now.”
“Of course,” he said, chewing slowly. “But a decision should be based on logic, not family sentiment.”
The kitchen was so quiet I could hear the hum of the small refrigerator in the corner.
Two nights later, the floor of my daughter’s spare bedroom was covered in flat, brown cardboard boxes. I taped the bottom of the largest one, the sound of the packing tape loud in the small apartment.
Emma sat on the edge of the mattress, twisting a strand of her dark hair around her index finger.
“You do not have to do this, Mom,” she said, her voice rising to that high, thin register it took on when she was anxious. “You can stay here as long as you need to.”
“We are on top of each other, sweetheart,” I said, folding a heavy wool sweater. “And Tom needs his study back to prepare his lessons.”
“Tom has never complained once,” she said, looking toward the closed door. “He told me yesterday he is happy to have you.”
