“Hello, Richard,” she said.

Richard stopped, his hand still hovering near the handle.

He looked her up and down, his eyes taking in her worn coat, her tired face, and the gray in her hair.

A slow, patronizing smile spread across his face.

“You look terrible, Rose,” he said.

“And you look exactly the same,” she replied, her voice steadying. “Still hiding behind your money and your lies.”

“Lies?” Richard laughed, a soft, dry sound. “I don’t tell lies. I make arrangements.”

He turned to me, pointing at Rose.

“Is this who you’ve been spending your afternoon with, Evelyn? A woman who couldn’t even keep her own life together?”

“She’s Claire’s mother,” I whispered.

“No,” Richard said, his voice suddenly sharp. “*You* are Claire’s mother. Because I chose you to be.”

The word *chose* hung in the air, heavy and poisonous.

“You didn’t choose me,” I said, the truth finally fully crystalizing in my mind. “You used me. You used my grief and my desperation to cover up your mess.”

Richard sighed, as if he were explaining a simple concept to a difficult child.