Chapter 4: Grandma's House Rules

The caseworker's rule was that my visits had to happen in the presence of the host.

The host was Inez.

So at ten o'clock Saturday morning I sat at my mother-in-law's kitchen table, being supervised.

The woman supervising me had packed my daughter's suitcase before anyone asked.

The kitchen smelled like cinnamon and lemon polish.

Every surface was clear, and the only thing on the counter was the cookie tin, standing by itself.

"You look tired, Rena," Inez said, and set a mug in front of me. "Sit, sit. Isn't she tired, Birdie?"

I put my hand in my pocket and touched the card.

"I'm fine," I said.

"She cries in the laundry room," Birdie said.

Inez tilted her head with a soft little sound.

"I cry in the laundry room because it's the only room with a lock," I said. "It's not a mystery."

"Oh, honey."

"Put it in the file," I said, mildly. "I'd be glad to hear it read back."

Inez smiled and patted my hand.

She had a way of patting that left a feeling behind it.

"Birdie, who makes the best breakfast?" she asked.

"You."

"And what does Mommy make?"

"Toast," Birdie said. "It's black. It's evidence."

Inez laughed, and I did too, because it was funny.

I was tired enough that I could laugh at my own toast without getting hurt.

Birdie was in the unicorn pajamas, which I had not bought.

She had a plate in front of her with a tidy row of three butter cookies, and a fourth had been bitten.

"Grandma and I have honesty hour," she told me, with her mouth full.

"After breakfast. I say what I noticed, and if it's a good true thing, I get a cookie."

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