Chapter 23: The Lemon Cutting

I did not answer him on the steps.

I took his hand, and we walked to Roz's van, and I waited until we were in front of my mother's house.

Orchard Street looked smaller than I remembered.

The porch light still hung crooked, and somebody had painted the front door yellow.

A locksmith had changed the lock that morning, and the new key lay in my palm.

Milo stood on the walk beside me with his backpack on both shoulders.

"You didn't say," he said.

"I was thinking."

"About whether you're angry."

"About the truth," I said. "Sit with me."

We sat down on the porch step.

Roz and Clyde stayed by the van, carrying boxes very slowly.

"I'm not angry at you," I said. "I was never angry at you, not for one minute. I was angry that no one asked you."

"Asked me what?"

"If you were all right. If it was true. If you wanted to be the one to say it."

He looked at his shoes.

"I was six."

"I know. That's exactly why."

"But I said it."

"You said what a grown woman told you to say, so I would come home. That is the opposite of lying to hurt me."

"Dad says..."

"Your dad doesn't get to say anything about it anymore."

He nodded slowly.

"Mom?"

"Yes?"

"I need to say it. Even if you say I don't have to."

"Then say it."

He unzipped his backpack with careful fingers.

He took out a plastic yogurt cup with a hole punched in the bottom, set inside a saucer.

In the dirt there was a green stem as long as my finger, with four small shiny leaves.

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