At the time, I’d been proud of that word.

It had felt like a verdict.

Now it reminded me of the kitchen that morning: Brittany’s dismissive laughter, Rose’s trembling hands, and my own anger gathering speed until it seemed impossible to stop.

“I don’t know,” I admitted.

Grandma sat down.

“I used to keep every letter your grandfather wrote me.

Even the ones from when we were arguing.

I thought they might teach me something if I read them again when I was older.”