I looked at the six-year-old blouse and the broken sandal strap, and then I looked at the wall of new appliances behind my mother’s head, and something in me that had been trying, even now, to find an innocent explanation — some misunderstanding, some version where they were not quite this — went quiet at last, and did not speak again.

“How much of the money I sent,” I said, “went to her treatment?”

There was a silence.

Selina finally allowed that they had paid for a few visits.

A few.

And it was Phedra, quiet, exact, unwilling even now to let a lie stand, who corrected her.

“Two,” she said.

Two visits.