Adrienne was in the kitchen when she heard the front door open and close; a moment later, Amanda was moving through the living room.

“Mom ?“

Adrienne set the box on the kitchen counter. “In here,” she called.

When Amanda pushed through the swinging doors into the kitchen, she found her mother sitting at the table, an unopened bottle of wine before her.

“What’s going on?” Amanda asked.

Adrienne smiled, thinking how pretty her daughter was. With light brown hair and hazel eyes to offset her high cheekbones, she had always been lovely. Though an inch shorter than Adrienne, she carried herself with the posture of a dancer and seemed taller. She was thin, too, a little too thin in Adrienne’s opinion, but Adrienne had learned not to comment on it,

“I wanted to talk to you,” Adrienne said.

“About what?”

Instead of answering, Adrienne motioned to the table. “I think you should sit down.”

Amanda joined her at the table. Up close, Amanda looked drawn, and Adrienne reached for her hand. She squeezed it, saying nothing, then reluctantly let go as she turned toward the window. For a long moment, there were no sounds in the kitchen.

“Mom?” Amanda finally asked. “Are you okay?”

Adrienne closed her eyes and nodded. “I’m fine. I was just wondering where to begin.”

Amanda stiffened slightly. “Is this about me again? Be-cause if it is—”

Adrienne cut her off with a shake of her head. “No, this is about me,” she said. “I’m going to tell you about some-thing that happened fourteen years ago.”

Amanda tilted her head, and in the familiar surround-ings of the small kitchen, Adrienne began her story.