A tiny pause. She had always hated when I skipped the performance. Janet believed conversations should begin with velvet before the knife came out. She liked ritual. Sweetness. A little laughter. A little false concern. She preferred people softened before she cut them.
“I’m calling because your father and I have reached a decision,” she said.
Outside, another artillery round rolled across the heat.
I leaned back in my chair. “About what?”
“About your mother’s trust.”
There it was.
The room around me sharpened. The worn government desk. The framed certificate on the wall. My uniform blouse hanging neatly on the back of the door. The black pen between my fingers. Everything became clear in that way things do right before impact.
“My mother’s trust is not yours to decide,” I said.
Janet gave a soft laugh, almost pitying. “That’s exactly the kind of attitude I was hoping we could avoid.”
“Then you called the wrong person.”
