There was more frustration than defensiveness in his voice.
I recognized it.
Growing up, Brandon and I had been very different children, but we had shared one common experience: information in the Whitmore house traveled according to rank.
Dad knew everything.
Grandpa knew more.
Children knew what they were told.
“Did Grandpa mention me?”
Brandon was silent.
That was answer enough.
“What did he say?”
“He asked whether I spoke to you.”
“When?”
“About four months ago.”
“And?”
“I said no.”
The corridor felt suddenly narrower.
“What did he say after that?”
Brandon looked embarrassed.
“He said, ‘Then perhaps you should ask yourself why.’”
That sounded exactly like Grandpa.
“And did you?”
“Yes.”
The answer surprised me.
Brandon looked toward the ballroom.
“You probably think I spent ten years agreeing with Dad.”
“You laughed at his Band-Aid joke ten minutes ago.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
He gave a small shrug that contained no humor.
“Habit.”
That word stayed between us.
Habit.
Not loyalty.
Not belief.
Habit.
It was easier than I wanted it to be to understand.
Dad could make agreement feel like gravity.
You didn’t notice how much force it exerted until you tried moving in another direction.
“I should have called you,” Brandon said.
I looked at him.
He swallowed.
“I almost did. A lot of times.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because every year I waited made the first sentence harder.”
That, too, I understood.
Before I could answer, Evelyn appeared at the end of the corridor.
My stepmother had changed very little.
