“You also went into my home.”
“I know.”
“You put your clothes in my closet.”
“Marjorie put them there.”
“You left them.”
Aubrey pressed her lips together.
“Yes.”
“You wore slippers in my foyer.”
“Yes.”
“You slept in my bed.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Only after the hospital.”
“That does not make it better.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying you know.”
My voice rose, and the baby stirred.
Aubrey immediately placed one hand on the stroller.
I lowered my voice.
“You do not know what it felt like to walk into that apartment.”
“You do not know what it was like to realize my erasure had been organized.”
“You’re right,” she whispered.
“I don’t.”
I watched her wipe one tear away.
I refused to comfort her.
