A teacher’s voice snapped me back. “Is everything alright here?”
Parents had started staring. Even the front-office secretary had stepped outside.
I straightened. “No. And I want the principal here right now.”
***
The days after were a blur of meetings, phone calls, lawyers, and counselors. I sat in the principal’s office while a district officer took statements. By noon, Marla had been reported. Within days, the hospital opened an investigation.
I still woke up reaching for grief out of habit, even after the truth came.
“Is everything alright here?”
One afternoon, in a sunlit room, I sat across from Suzanne. Junie and Lizzy were on the floor, building a tower of blocks, their laughter rising in bright, impossible harmony.
Suzanne looked at me, her eyes swollen and raw. “Do you hate me?” she asked.
I swallowed. “I hate what you did, Suzanne. I hate that you knew and stayed silent. But I see that you love her, and it’s the only thing that makes this bearable. You had two years to tell me. I had six years to grieve.”
She nodded, tears streaking her cheeks. “If there’s any way, any way possible, we can do this together?”
I glanced at the girls, reaching over each other as they played with a dollhouse. “They’re sisters. That’s never changing again.”
