This was a structure.
A complete architecture of deception.
She had built rooms inside it for every possible accusation.
Sophie is fragile.
Sophie is dramatic.
Sophie is unstable.
Sophie lies.
Sophie hurts herself.
And I, fool that I was, had been living inside that architecture without seeing the walls.
Sirens sounded in the distance.
Penelope heard them too.
Her eyes sharpened.
“You called the police?”
“Yes.”
A laugh escaped her, but this one was brittle.
“You called the police on your mother?”
“I called the police on the woman hurting my family.”
“I am your family.”
“No,” I said. “You’re my mother.”
The words landed between us like a severed cord.
For the first time in my life, Penelope Sterlington had nothing to say.
