“They think she abandoned them,” Grandma Ruth said. “They think she did not want them.”
“It is better that way,” Clara said. “Would you rather tell them she died in that state hospice while I spent their trust fund on this kitchen?”
“She was sick, Clara,” Grandma Ruth said. “She did not have a choice.”
“We all have choices,” Clara said. “I chose to keep those boys from the state. I chose to give them a decent name.”
My hand tightened around the stems of the lilies until the green stalks bruised.
“She loved them, Clara,” Ruth said. “She wrote those letters. You still have them in the study.”
“The letters do not matter,” Clara said. “The legal limit is December first. Once that date passes, the account is closed forever, and they will never know the difference.”
I stood in the shadow of the hallway, holding the lilies as my childhood fell apart.
