He has never called you Grandma. Never Mrs. Whitmore. Always Margaret, as if respect would cost him money.
“I am standing,” you say.
Your voice is soft, but something in it makes the room colder.
Valerie laughs once, bitterly.
“Oh, please. Don’t make this dramatic.”
You touch your bleeding lip.
The blood comes away bright red on your fingers.
“Dramatic,” you repeat.
Then you look around your dining room at the twenty-three guests.
Some look down.
Some pretend to check their phones.
Some stare at the wine glasses as though the answer to courage might be floating inside.
You understand them all in that moment.
They have come to watch the old queen fall.
They just did not expect the sound to be so human.
You walk out of the dining room without another word.
Behind you, Valerie says, “Grandma, don’t be ridiculous.”
You keep walking.
Up the staircase.
Past the framed photograph of Lucy holding Valerie as a baby.
Past the hallway where Valerie once taped crayon drawings to the wall.
Into your bedroom.
