A daughter, the oldest, named Lucille, who she had not spoken to in nineteen years — a rift that had started over something Enid could barely reconstruct now, a wedding, an insult, a pride on both sides that hardened into silence and then into estrangement and then into the simple ongoing fact of a person you used to have and no longer did.

“She lives in Ohio,” Enid said.

“I have two grandchildren I’ve never met.

I found out about the second one from a Christmas card her cousin sent.” Her hands were folded on the table, very still.

“I spent nineteen years being right.

I was right, you understand.

She was cruel to me at that wedding, she owed me the apology, and I was right, and I have been right every single day for nineteen years, and do you know what being right has gotten me?” She looked at me.

“It’s gotten me a daughter I’ll die without seeing, and two grandchildren who wouldn’t know me on the street.