“Did you sit across from her at dinner and wonder what my dad was eating alone that night? Did you hold her hand and feel satisfied that the family I grew up in was gone? Did you ever look at the wedding photos and think about the little girl who used to fall asleep between her parents on the couch?”
Stephen stopped trying to answer.
The questions kept coming, soft and steady and merciless. He worked in silence while she spoke, the needle moving across her skin in short controlled bursts.
Every time he gathered a sentence she was already asking the next question, voice never rising, never breaking, just continuing as though she had stored every memory for this exact moment.
“Did you ever feel guilty when she laughed at something you said and you realised my dad used to make her laugh
