“I don’t want any tea.”

“Your father always took three spoons of sugar,” she said softly.

She talked in a slow, careful rhythm, pausing for five long seconds before reaching for two faded ceramic mugs on the drying rack.

“Frank is dying in hospice,” I said.

“He gave me this address forty minutes back.”

She put the kettle back down on the cold stove without turning on the burner.

Her right hand went up to touch the pale crescent scar beneath her chin.