The Wire That Stopped at My Kitchen Table
My father’s sentence, in my mouth, to my daughter, about my sister.
I had resented it when he gave it to me, that refusal to resolve a thing on demand, and now I was handing it down to Zoe as the most honest answer I had.
Was I angry at Monique?
Probably, somewhere, under the fear and the relief.
But anger decided in the middle of an exhausted night is not a judgment; it is just a mood wearing a judgment’s clothes.
The feeling could wait.
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