My mother knew, but didn’t want to know.
One evening, I cornered her near the sink.
— Mom, have you ever been inside his house? Just once?
She turned the tap on a little harder.
— He is discreet.
— He is evasive.
— There is a difference.
Her shoulders tensed. She slammed the plate down a little too loudly. And behind her defensive posture, I saw something else: she too had noticed. She just didn’t want to admit it.
“Let me have this,” she whispered. “Even if it ends badly, let me live the part where I still have hope.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say in response.
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