away.
I could have ripped that perfect living room open with the truth.
But Frank had taught me that some doors are better opened slowly.
So I crossed the carpet.
I bent down.
I lifted the blanket from the bin and shook a small piece of tissue from the border.
Nobody moved.
A woman near the window stared into her lemonade glass as if it might save her from choosing a side.
Madison’s mother busied herself with the knife beside the cake, though no one had asked her to cut it.
The friend recording lowered the phone a few inches, but not all the way.
I folded the blanket against my chest.
I kissed Kyle on the cheek.
His skin was hot with shame.
“I’m tired,” I told him.
That was all.
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I carried the blanket out through the front door and into the late afternoon sun.
The
