He looked at Denise, then at me.
“Promise?”
That one word carried nineteen years.
“I promise.”
Simon followed Principal Harris inside.
The moment he was gone, Denise’s posture changed.
“You enjoyed that,” she said.
I stared at her. “Enjoyed what?”
“Being praised. Being saint Joanna.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Turn pain into theater because you don’t know how to sit with it.”
Her eyes flashed. “You think you’re better than me.”
“No,” I said. “I think I was there.”
Jonathan looked between us. “Denise, did you sign custody papers?”
Her face went pale.
I turned slowly toward her.
My parents froze.
“What papers?” I asked.
Denise opened her mouth, then closed it.
Dad muttered, “This isn’t the time.”
“It became the time when she brought a cake,” I said, still staring at my sister. “What papers?”
Mom pressed her lips together.