“She is a toddler.”

“Kendra’s boys never behaved like this.”

Of course they hadn’t. In my mother’s memory, Kendra’s children had been perfect. They never cried. Never interrupted. Never demanded inconvenient attention.

They weren’t simply grandchildren. They belonged to the daughter she’d always placed above everyone else.

I opened my driver’s door. “Don’t contact me tonight.”

She blinked. “What?”