It was not a mother’s look.

It was the look of someone guarding a possession.

Chapter 2 — Her Eyes Weren’t Drunk

I did not sleep much on that couch.

The house ticked and settled around me, and every time I closed my eyes I saw that look again, that sharp possessive attention on a face that was pretending to be slack with wine, and something in my chest would not lie flat.

I told myself I was being unfair.