I remembered my mother’s careful smile, her talent for making concern sound like wisdom. She had liked Rachel in the way people liked weather from indoors—pleasant to watch, inconvenient to live with.
“She never told me,” I said.
Rachel gave me a sad look. “Would she have?”
I wanted to say yes. I could not.
My phone buzzed. My mother’s name appeared on the screen, as if summoned by the weight of our silence.
I did not answer.
A voicemail appeared a minute later. Then a text.
Your father said he saw you in the park today with someone unexpected. Call me before you make any decisions you can’t undo.
I showed Rachel.
Her face went very still.
“How would your father know that?” she asked.
“He walks through Rittenhouse most afternoons.”
“Did he know me?”
“Yes.”
She looked toward the children. Lily was pretending to read aloud from a travel magazine, inventing a story about a castle that sold waffles. Noah was listening with grave attention. Sophie had fallen asleep against the sofa cushion, rabbit under her chin.
