We stood in the morning sun, the truth between us at last, with witnesses all around and nothing left to hide.
My vision blurred. “You let me mourn my child for six years. And you let me do it while she was alive.”
Suzanne stepped closer, her face twisting in pain. “I love her. I’m not her mother, not really, but I couldn’t let go. I’m sorry, Phoebe. I’m so, so sorry.”
“You took my daughter from me.”
I didn’t know what to do with her grief. But it did nothing to excuse what she’d done.
For a long moment, no one spoke. The sounds of the schoolyard faded, and all I could see was the last six years:
Junie’s second birthday, me, in the kitchen late at night, icing one cake and then freezing, hand trembling as I remembered there was supposed to be two.
Or Junie at four, sleeping with her cheek against the pillow, sunlight in her curls, Michael already gone, and me standing over her, asking the dark, “Do you dream about your sister, too?”
I didn’t know what to do with her grief.
