You Are My Daughter
She was asking whether the thing Beatrice had spent three years implying was, in fact, true.
She was asking whether she was a lesser member of her own family.
She was asking whether the love she got from Caleb was a smaller, more conditional, more provisional kind of love than the love the real grandchildren got, whether she was a visitor in her own life.
And she was asking it in the small, careful, matter-of-fact voice of a child who has already half-decided that the answer is yes, and is bracing to have it confirmed.
I opened my mouth, and I did not have it, the answer big enough for that question.
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