Chapter 4

The thunder went on all night. My daughter slept badly and only dropped off for good near dawn.

When I woke, the household registration book was gone from the nightstand.

A little after ten, I saw a photo Brent had posted to his feed.

Three words with it: my little girl.

In the picture, Violet's daughter wore a new dress and held the registration book up to the camera, laughing, a neat stack of paperwork beside her.

Brent crouched next to her, head tilted toward the lens, the corner of his mouth curved up, one hand on the little girl's shoulder, the other holding a freshly unwrapped pencil case.

The comments were lively.

A coworker asked, "When did you get a daughter?"

He replied, "Helping out a friend, but we've grown close."

Violet added a line underneath: "Daisy says she likes Uncle Brent."

He answered with a laughing-behind-the-hand emoji.

I scrolled up to the last post he'd made about our daughter. It was from the day she was born.

The photo was blurry, a wrinkled little bundle tucked into a blanket, the caption only two words: she was born.

I kept scrolling. Nothing after that.

Four years, and that was the only one.

I locked the screen and pushed the phone into the lining of the suitcase.

The closet was already empty. I folded my daughter's clothes and stacked them in the case.

The zipper was halfway shut when the doorbell rang.

Margaret stood in the doorway, hair a little windblown, a thermos in her hand.

"Where's Brent?"

She glanced past me, saw the open suitcase in the living room, and her step faltered.

"He went out," I said.

She didn't ask where. She came in and set the thermos on the dining table, lifting the lid.

"I made some soup. You and the little one have it first."

Then she turned, and her eyes landed on the suitcase and stayed there a long moment.

The air went quiet.

She reached into the inside pocket of her coat, drew out a card, came over, and set it by my hand. "Take it."

"Mom."

"You've suffered these years, and it wasn't fair to you."

She didn't look at me. She bent to pick up the hair clip our daughter had dropped, wiped it off, and slid it back into the side pocket of the backpack.

"When Brent was chasing you, no one ran harder for it. I couldn't have stopped him if I'd tried."

"And once he actually married you, he lost the family right out from under himself."

Her voice was calm, like she was talking about some other household.

"That card is what your father and I have put aside over the years. It's not much. It's better that you go than let him stall you another five."

She nudged the thermos toward me. "Drink the soup while it's hot. Don't let it get cold."

I opened the thermos. Wolfberries and red dates floated on the surface, still warm.

My daughter poked her head out of the bedroom, her nose twitching. "Did Grandma come?"

"Mm."

"Where's Grandma?"

"She left."

She said, "Oh," climbed onto a chair, and craned her neck to look into the bowl of soup.

"Mommy, are we really moving away?"

"Mm."

She was quiet for a while, then lowered her head and stirred the soup with her spoon. "Then will Grandma miss us?"

I tucked the card into the sleeve of my wallet and thought about it.

"She will."

She scooped up a wolfberry and put it in her mouth, cheeks full, and mumbled around it, "Then I'll save Grandma a spoonful too."