I stared at her. My fingers were still spread from where the urn had slipped. I couldn’t even feel them. Three weeks earlier, I had stood in a hospital corridor in Columbus, Ohio, signing cremation papers after my six-month-old son, Noah, died from a sudden respiratory infection that worsened in less than two days. I brought his ashes back to my parents’ house because I couldn’t afford my apartment after missing work, and because my mother had said, Come home, Emily. We’ll help you get through this.
Now she stood there in pressed beige slacks and a cardigan, chin lifted, as though I were the one who had done something wrong.
“Tell me you didn’t,” I said.
She folded the towel neatly over her arm. “I did what needed to be done. You were sitting in that room every day with that urn on your lap. It wasn’t healthy.”
My father, Richard, stepped into view from the kitchen, his face already tight from hearing our voices. “Marlene—”
“No, Dad,” I cut in, eyes locked on her. “You knew?”
He hesitated. That was enough.
Behind them, my younger sister Chloe came partway down the stairs, one hand resting protectively on her stomach. Seven months pregnant. Pale. Wide-eyed. “What’s going on?”
