Seven years old.
He took their medicine and it killed him, and your mother knew — she knew for months — and she was too afraid for her comfortable little job to speak up until it was already on the shelves.”
Chapter 22 — Blood Doesn’t Inherit Guilt
I stood very still and let him tell it — how his seven-year-old boy had died of a toxic reaction to that plant’s tainted medicine, how my mother had known about the fraud and held the evidence back out of fear until it was too late.
And I felt, standing there, not the fear he wanted from me, but a strange and total clarity.
“So your idea of justice,” I said, “was to poison a woman who wasn’t born when your son died.