I would be asking him to revise his grief.

And I could not tell whether I was staying silent to spare him that, or to spare myself the risk that he would hear it and side with her anyway — that he would say she was grieving, she didn’t mean it, you should have forgiven her, and I would lose not only my mother but the argument, and be told one more time that my wound didn’t count.

So I did what I had done for nine years.

I chose the silence, and let my brother believe I had no defense, because offering it felt more dangerous than his contempt.