Emily had been ours since she was sixteen months old. Robert had held her the day we brought her home and cried into her hair. He had taught her how to plant tomatoes, bait a fishing hook, and say “portfolio” like it was a magic word.
He called her his little compass.
Patricia, however, had always called her “your girl.”
I stood carefully and wrapped my coat around Emily’s shoulders.
“We’re leaving.”
Patricia lifted her chin.
“Don’t make a scene.” Crafts
I looked around the table at every adult sitting there, especially the ones pretending to stare at their shoes.
“No,” I said. “You already did.”
Three days later, their lawyer called.
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