everything happening in Philadelphia, but occasionally Margaret called.
She had always treated me with kindness, even when she failed to challenge Dominic’s behavior.
After Sophie’s death, something in her changed too.
She stopped defending him automatically.
One afternoon, she called while I was walking home from work.
“Lauren, I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Of course not, Margaret.”
“How are you?”
I considered giving the familiar answer.
Fine.
Busy.
Doing well.
Instead, I said, “Some days are hard.”
Her voice softened.
“I understand.”
We spoke about Sophie.
Her favorite foods.
The ridiculous little songs she invented.
The way she refused to sleep without her stuffed rabbit.
Margaret laughed through tears when I reminded her that Sophie once tried to feed a strawberry to a ceramic garden frog.
Then she became quiet.
“Dominic started counseling.”
I stopped walking.
