nose.
Somewhere past the highway exit, she went quiet. Her turtle sat in her lap.
“Mom?”
“Yeah, baby?”
She hadn’t made friends with those girls, and she never would.
“I knew it was wrong. The picture.” She picked at the clay. “I was just tired. Tired of always being the one who went home upset. I wanted her to know what it felt like.”
I kept my eyes on the road. I understood that anger. Every part of me did.
I also wasn’t going to pretend it made the picture okay.
“I get it,” I said. “Doesn’t make it right. But I get it.”
“I wanted her to know what it felt like.”
“I know.”
She was quiet another mile. Then she looked right at me.
“Next time, I’ll tell you.”
I didn’t make a speech. I didn’t need one.
I reached over, squeezed her knee, and said the only
thing that mattered.
“Good.”
I didn’t make a speech. I didn’t need one.
