“Where is Lily?”
My mother looked away.
“Safe.”
“Where?”
“With me.”
“I want to see her.”
“She doesn’t want to see you.”
My chest tightened.
“Did she say that?”
“Yes.”
“Can I hear it from her?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t get to come out after eleven years and disrupt everything.”
Anger rose.
I forced it down.
“I wrote.”
“I know.”
“You returned the letters.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She needed to move on.”
“You decided that?”
“I raised her.”
“I am her mother.”
“You stopped being her mother the day you helped rob that pharmacy.”
I went completely still.
There are sentences you can survive only because you have already survived worse.
That was one.
I looked at her.
Then asked.
“Why are you here?”
Her eyes shifted toward the ridge.
“Dad intended this land for the family.”
“No.”
“I saw the letter.”
My mother’s face changed.
“What letter?”
