I raised my niece on my own — eight years later, she pointed at a woman in the next beach changing cubicle and whispered, “Aunty, look… she has my mark”
comforting Ruth to have anything left for Joan yet.
“I talked to your photo when Ruth had fevers,” I said. “I asked you what to do when she cried for you. Do you know what it’s like to be furious at a dead person and then hate yourself for it?”
“I’m sorry.”
I didn’t comfort her.
“Don’t spend that word all at once. You owe me years of it.”
