“My duty is to my wife and my son, Mother,” I said.
“Maya is a schoolteacher from Ohio, David,” Eleanor said. “She does not understand the complexities of our social standing in Brooklyn.”
“She understands what it means to be left in a freezing apartment with a newborn,” I said.
Uncle Robert shook his head, his hand gripping the brass handle of his cane.
“There are two sides to every story, David,” Robert said. “Eleanor told me she left plenty of food in the pantry.”
“She left three cans of soup and a dry loaf of bread,” I said.
“That is more than enough for two days,” my mother said, her chin remaining high.
I pulled a folded piece of yellow lined paper from my inner pocket and laid it flat on the mahogany coffee table between us.
“This is the note you left in my kitchen on New Year’s Eve, Mother,” I said.
