I crossed the tile in three strides and caught her before she fell, and she weighed almost nothing in my arms — far less than she should have, far less than she had a month before.

Under the sleeve of her cardigan, when it fell back, I saw them: yellowing bruises, in the distinct shape of a grip, circling her frail wrist.

“What happened, Mom?” My voice came out tight and strange.

“She fell,” Wendy said smoothly, before my mother could answer, and took a slow, unhurried sip of her wine.

My mother’s eyes dropped to the floor.

Her shoulders slumped, in a way I recognized without yet understanding — the posture of a person who has learned that the truth is not permitted, that the official story has already been decided by someone else, and that contradicting it will only make things worse.