She lowered her head.
“I don’t have a defense.”
“Good.”
“Don’t invent one.”
We stayed quiet.
Then my father spoke.
“Can we do this differently?”
We all turned.
He continued:
“Not pretend nothing happened.”
“Not pretend Lily is twenty.”
“Not pretend Claire isn’t angry.”
“But differently.”
My mother wiped her face.
“What does that mean?”
Nobody knew.
That was the first useful answer of the day.
We did not hug as a family.
We did not have some cinematic reconciliation.
I left before dinner.
The next day Lily texted:
I’m here. I’m not disappearing.
I did not answer for four hours.
Then:
Lunch Thursday.
She replied:
Okay.
Thursday became our first rule.
One meal.
Neutral place.
No parents.
No childhood reconstruction unless both of us wanted it.
The first lunch was terrible.
We talked about weather for eleven minutes.
Then work.
Then Lily’s plants.
