I stood near the window.
“And that’s when you looked for us?”
“Not immediately.”
“When?”
She said nothing.
“When, Lily?”
“Four years ago.”
I turned.
“So six years ago, you remembered.”
“Four years ago, you searched.”
“And you found me?”
“Yes.”
“What did you see?”
“Your work profile.”
“Your house.”
“A few photographs.”
“You looked happy.”
I felt something break.
“You decided I looked happy enough to keep believing you were dead.”
“That wasn’t—”
“What else could it have been?”
She stood.
“I was scared.”
“So was I.”
“I didn’t know how to come back.”
“You call.”
“It sounds simple now.”
“It was a phone number.”
“You remembered mine today while drugged at a dentist!”
She covered her face.
I continued:
“You knew Mom was alive.”
“You knew Dad was alive.”
“You knew I was alive.”
“And every year you chose another year.”
“Yes.”
Finally.
No defense.
