She grabbed her bag and moved to the door. Just before she stepped out, she turned back and looked toward the hallway where Mom’s bedroom is, like she wanted to say something and couldn’t.
“Bye, Margaret,” she called.
Mom’s door stayed shut.
I closed the door behind Alyssa and locked it, more for the symbolism than the security.
Then I went straight to my mother.
She was in her armchair, hands twisted in the hem of her sweater.
She looked up at me and tried to smooth her face into a smile. It didn’t work.
“Mom,” I said quietly, sitting on the coffee table in front of her, “we need to talk.”
Her eyes filled with tears instantly. “Oh, honey,” she said.
“I was hoping to… do this better.”
“So there is something,” I said. “I heard you and Alyssa on the doorbell recording last week. I know you’re keeping something from me.
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