“Sophie—”
“Please let me finish.”
I shut my mouth.
Her voice trembled but did not break.
“When Julian was born, she became worse. She said I was keeping him from her. She said breastfeeding was vulgar. Then she said formula would make him stupid. Then she said I was starving him. Then overfeeding him. Everything I did was wrong.”
She finally looked at me.
“And when I tried to tell you, she always got there first.”
I remembered.
Of course I remembered.
My mother in my study, pouring bourbon I didn’t ask for.
“Nicholas, darling, don’t be alarmed, but Sophie is becoming very sensitive. Don’t pressure her. Just let me handle things.”
My mother at dinner, touching my hand.
“She cried today because I folded a blanket differently. Hormones can be cruel.”
My mother outside our bedroom.
“Don’t wake her. She finally stopped spiraling.”
I had mistaken sabotage for support.
“She isolated you,” I said.
Sophie gave a small, empty smile.
