“Mommy, why did Grandma look so mad at the baby?” Brooklyn asked.

I reached down and rubbed the tender skin just above my incision, feeling the sharp, burning pull under my bandages.

“Grandma was just tired from driving,” I said softly, though the lie felt heavy in my mouth.

“No, she wasn’t,” Brooklyn said.

She picked up a purple crayon and turned it in her fingers.

“She stood right outside the glass door and shook her head at the little bed.

She looked like she was mad at Rosalie for being born.”