Vivian stepped forward. “Don't undermine me in front of the children. She has been sulking all afternoon. You didn't see what she—”
“I didn't see,” I said. “That's the problem. I've been here every night in my head, believing I knew what happened in my house when I wasn't home.”
Brandon put down his fork. Nia was staring at a spot near her mother's wrist. I wanted to shout. I wanted to ask Vivian how long she had been treating my daughter this way. But I could see Lila's shoulders tighten every time Vivian raised her voice. So I asked Brandon and Nia to finish eating in the kitchen, and I told Lila she could stay right where she was. She took one small bite, then another, not looking up. Each movement of her fork felt like a verdict against my blindness.
Vivian folded her arms. “After everything I've done for you, this is how you speak to me? I put my life on hold to take care of your child.”
“You came here because your townhouse needed repairs,” I said. “I offered you a place to stay. I paid for the groceries. I never asked you to raise my daughter instead of letting her be part of this family.”
Vivian's mouth tightened. “You always were ungrateful. Your father knew that.”
The old phrase might have worked on me a month earlier. It had worked for thirty years. But Lila was sitting behind us, holding a fork in one hand and a napkin in the other, and I could not make her watch me become that silent eleven-year-old again. “My father isn't here to answer for what you did,” I said. “I am. And I am asking you what Lila ate for dinner last night.”
Vivian answered that she could not remember every meal. I asked about the night before. She said she had cooked soup. When I asked whether Lila had eaten at the table, Vivian said I was interrogating her. She accused me of turning children against their grandmother. She said Lila had never gone hungry, that she was simply a picky eater, that discipline was not abuse. Her explanation kept changing, and the changes frightened me more than a single lie might have. Lila continued eating with her eyes lowered. I realized she had probably heard Vivian explain away her unhappiness many times before.
A knock sounded at the front door. I looked toward the hall, confused. Vivian did too. Then the doorbell rang. Nia appeared in the kitchen doorway, her expression tense but determined. “It's Uncle Martin,” she said. “I asked him to come.”