“You said we could talk about anything I wanted,” Isla accuses when I stall for a little too long. “This is what I want to talk about. I’m not a baby anymore.”
I sigh. “I’m just not sure you’ll understand.”
“I’m smarter than you think.”
I raise my eyebrows. “I think you’re incredibly smart. It has nothing to do with your intelligence.”
I take a deep breath. Here goes.
“She committed suicide, sweetheart,” I say softly. “She took a lot of pills to go to sleep and she never woke up again.”
An older couple passes by just as I say the words aloud, and I’m pretty sure I get a few dubious looks. What kind of mom tells her nine-year-old about suicide? A bad one, apparently, in their eyes. I’m not even sure they’re wrong.
Isla looks stunned for a moment. “Why did she do it?”
I’ve been askin
