“Upstairs?”
He realized his mistake immediately.
“That’s what someone at the hospital told me.
I think.
Everything is confused.”
For the first time since he returned, sweat appeared near his temple.
I folded the form in my hands.
“Did Mom know I was upstairs?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you?”
“I just told you, sweetheart.
Someone must have said it.”
His voice was still soft, but the softness had edges now.
I recognized that tone from years of watching people explain transactions they thought nobody else understood.
Facts made innocent people clearer.
Facts made liars complicated.
My father reached for the page.
“You should rest.
Sign these and I’ll take care of the rest.”
I didn’t release it.
His eyes moved to my hand.
“I’m tired,” I said.
“I know.”
“Maybe tomorrow.”
The grieving father disappeared for one second.
“These need to be handled today.”
There it was again.
Pressure.
Not grief.
Not concern.
Urgency.
“Why?”
He sat back.
“Because there are deadlines.”
“What deadlines?”
“You don’t need to worry about that.”
“Then tomorrow won’t matter.”
He stared at me.
I watched him realize that memory loss had not erased my ability to reason.
His fingers tightened around the edge of the document case.
“Your mother used to do this,” he said quietly.
I felt something cold move through me.
“Do what?”
“Turn everything into an interrogation.”
The cruelty wasn’t loud.
It didn’t need to be.
My mother had been dead less than a day, and he was already punishing her for having asked questions while she was alive.
I let my lip tremble.
“I’m sorry.
I don’t know what I’m saying.”
His expression softened again.
He believed he had corrected me.
That was his second mistake.
He stood and walked toward the window.
“She became obsessed with the accounts,” he said.
