“I’m not doing this,” she said. “I’m not sitting in your kitchen and letting you take it. You know how much of what’s happened to me was decided by other people? Almost all of it. I’m not handing you this one.”

She put her hand flat on my chest, over the sternum, the way she used to when she was small and wanted my whole attention. “You didn’t do it. Say it.”

“I didn’t do it.”

“Again.”

“I didn’t do it.”

“Okay.” She stepped back and wiped her face with the back of her wrist. “You can be sorry about the text. I’m sorry about the text too. That’s allowed. But you’re not carrying it, because I’ve got about as much room in me as I’ve got and I can’t spend it on you.”