And she had understood, then, and had said nothing, because it was not hers to say.
"Solange Augustin," the man said, reading off the card. He said it wrong, the way everyone said it wrong, Sol-ANJ Aw-GUS-tin, as if it were two words in English that did not go together. "This is a non-driver ID."
"Yes," she said. "I don't drive."
"Says you live on Rogers Avenue. In Brooklyn."
"That is my sister's address. I keep my mail there. It is my legal address. I live in Wickham Falls six days a week."
"That's convenient."
"No," Solange said. "It is not convenient. It is the job. Live-in aides keep an address somewhere else. Everyone does. The job ends when the patient dies, and then you need somewhere to go."
She watched that land on him. She had not meant it to be a blade, or perhaps she had. She watched his face, which was his father's face, and she saw it take the word dies and do nothing at all with it, nothing, not a flicker, the way the old man's face did nothing when it hurt the most. She thought: oh. Oh, you poor fool. You are exactly the same.
She opened her mouth. She could say it now. I know who you are. I know your father. I know that he lifts his hand at your car every night. I know about the photograph. It would end this, or it would change it, and either way she would be in the house in ten minutes with the kettle on and the old man would say Watch? and she would say Here.
She closed her mouth again.