Priscilla called from my mother’s number, catching me off guard while I organized medical files.

“Gregory’s still living in a hotel downtown,” she said, her voice raw.

“I’m sorry you’re going through a hard time, Priscilla,” I said, neutrally.

“You caused this!” she snapped.

“No.

The truth caused a painful conversation you spent years avoiding.” The line went silent for several seconds.

And then she said the sentence I will remember for the rest of my life.

“You could have just agreed, Charlotte.