She glanced at the screen, and her face crumpled.
The beach went silent.
I turned to Dylan, who was staring at his feet like a scolded boy.
Diane marched toward me
“And you,” I said quietly. “Four days. Four days of your mother tearing me apart, and you sat there. Silent.”
“I didn’t want to start anything,” he mumbled.
“You didn’t want to start anything, but you were happy to let her finish me.”
Diane tried to pull the fabric closed.
“This is your fault. All of it.”
“I didn’t want to start anything,”
“No, Diane. This is what happens when you spend your whole life trying to look better than everyone else. Eventually the seams give out.”
Somebody in the back actually snorted.
I picked up my son from his stroller and held him close.
I walked to the house, packed my bag, and buckled my baby into his car seat.
