“The paper said Elena died in an accident on State Road Nine,” I said. “It said she died on October sixteenth.”
She adjusted her wire-rimmed glasses again, her fingers shaking so much the metal frames clicked against her temple. A tear tracked through the garden dust on her cheek, leaving a clean, pale line down to her chin.
“She didn’t run away from us, did she?” Noah asked.
“Clara said it was for the best,” Grandma Ruth whispered, her voice cracking as she looked toward the house. “She said you boys didn’t need to grow up knowing your mother died like that. She said it would make you feel safer to think she was just gone.”
“Safer?” I asked, my voice rising. “To think our own mother didn’t want us?”
Grandma Ruth took off her yellow gloves and squeezed them between her hands. “Elena loved you boys more than her own breath. She wanted to make sure you were looked after.”
