“I prevented a mistake.”
“You destroyed her reputation. You made me believe she had sold private information about our family.”
Vivian’s face remained composed.
“She had access to things she should not have had.”
“Because I trusted her.”
“Exactly.”
I took a step closer.
“Did you know she was pregnant?”
Her expression did not change.
Yet silence answered before she did.
“No,” she said.
Too late.
Too carefully.
“Why did you hesitate?”
“I didn’t.”
“Mother.”
Her gaze moved beyond me.
I turned.
Hannah stood several yards away in a wheelchair, a nurse behind her.
She should not have been out of bed.
Her skin was almost colorless, one hand gripping the armrest. But her eyes were fixed on Vivian.
Not with surprise.
With recognition.
Vivian became very still.
“Hannah,” she said.
Hannah’s fingers tightened.
“Mrs. Harrison.”
The nurse glanced between them.
“We were on our way to the NICU,” she explained. “Ms. Parker insisted.”
Vivian recovered first.
“You should rest.”
Hannah gave a faint, humorless smile.
“You said that the last time we met.”
My attention shifted sharply to my mother.
“The last time?”
Neither woman answered.
“Hannah,” I said, “when did you see her?”
Her face closed.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
“That has always been the problem.”
She looked at the nurse.
“Please take me upstairs.”
The wheelchair began moving.
Vivian stepped aside.
As Hannah passed me, her sleeve shifted, revealing the faded burn scar along her forearm. She covered it quickly.
I watched until the elevator doors closed.
Then I turned to my mother.
“What happened after I left her?”
Vivian picked up her handbag.
“This is not the place.”
“You went to see her.”
“She came to me.”
“When?”
“A few weeks after your separation.”
“Why?”
“To ask for money.”
The lie was immediate and polished.
Years ago, I would have believed it.
Now I saw the subtle tightening around her mouth.
“You’re lying.”
“How dare you.”
“No. How dare you.”
My voice remained low, but something in it made her step back.
“I believed you because you were my mother. I thought that meant you could not possibly invent something so cruel.”
“I did what was necessary.”
“For whom?”
“For this family.”
“What did Hannah want?”
Vivian said nothing.
“Was she pregnant?”
Her eyes flickered.
My heart began to pound.
“Were the babies mine?”
“Don’t be absurd. The dates alone—”
“What dates?”
She stopped.
The hallway seemed to narrow around us.
I had not mentioned conception dates. I had not told her how far along Hannah was.
Yet she knew enough to object.
“What dates, Mother?”