I close my eyes and remind myself, she’s not my mother. “Aunt Sophia,” I start, take a deep breath, and make my voice even and flat. “The difference is if she got out a few years from now, I’d be older, and I wouldn’t have to go live with her.”
Sophia looks at me and drops her gaze. A flash of worry crosses her face. Worry, but maybe not for me. Her brown speckled hand gropes for the cup without looking.
The kitchen clock is loud, ticking. We stand, leaning on the counter, not looking at each other.
“You know what she did,” I say.
Of course she does. She drains her glass and sets it down crooked. It almost tips, but she catches it in time. “Angela did some bad things,” she says, “but she’s different now.”
“Some bad things?” Sarcasm roars back. She makes that monster sound like a naughty kid. “She killed horses for money. She threatened to hurt my friend and poison her horse.” Now I have to look away. “And worse stuff.”
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