She did not begin with guilt anymore.
That alone was progress.
“Vesper,” she said, “Elowen’s housing term ends in December.”
I closed my eyes.
There it was.
“They’re helping her apply for a longer-term apartment,” I said.
“I know. She told me.”
“Okay.”
“She may need a guarantor.”
My stomach turned.
“No.”
“You didn’t even ask how much.”
“No.”
My mother was quiet.
Then she said, “I’m not asking for myself.”
“I know.”
“Wren needs stability.”
“I know.”
“Elowen is doing better.”
“I know.”
“She has worked very hard.”
“I know.”
“So you won’t even consider it?”
I looked around the attic.
My desk was covered in flashcards.
My scrubs hung over the chair.
My father’s letters sat in a wooden box on the windowsill.
This room was proof that one safe place could change a life.
That made the question harder, not easier.
