In the gallery, Thomas’s mother was very still.
She said, to no one in particular: she looked enough like her.
She said it quietly.
She said it the way people say things when they have forgotten that sound carries.
Thomas said: Mom.
She said: she was going to take everything. You said she was going to take everything.
Thomas said: Mom.
He said it with the urgency of someone who needs her to stop.
She did not stop.
She said: the license was old enough that the picture still worked. We just needed the ring to match.
She said: the ring was just.
Thomas said: Mom. Stop talking.
She stopped.
But the words were in the room.
The judge had heard them.
The court reporter had heard them.
Diane had heard them.
I had heard them.
Thomas’s mother looked at me.
For the first time in nine years, she looked at me without the performance.
