He tapped the arm of his chair. “Then my health started to decline. Neurological disease. Progressive. I fought it. I lost.”
“Your birth was complicated.”
“Then Claire became pregnant with you,” he said. “Surprise. Scary. But we were happy.”
Barbara’s face tightened, as if she already knew where this was going.
Richard’s voice broke. “Your birth was complicated. Hemorrhage. Claire… didn’t survive.”
Barbara whispered, “She left before she could even take you home.”
I pressed my fingers together in my palms. “So what happened to me?”
Richard looked down as if his hands had betrayed me.
“I was grieving,” he said. “Disabled. Broke. Barbara was 17, trying to keep everything from falling apart.”
Barbara stared at the floor, tears welling in her eyes.
“That’s when my mother came to live with us,” Richard said. “And she took matters into her own hands.”
“She said I’d ruin my life.”
“She told me I wouldn’t be able to take care of you,” he said. “That Barbara deserved college, not… a life as a caregiver.”
Barbara’s voice was bitter. “She said I’d ruin my life.”
Richard continued, “She called social services. She said we needed ‘options.’”
“Options,” I repeated, savoring the word like poison.
“A social worker came,” Richard said. “Mrs. Greene.”
The name sounded like a stamp on paper. Final. Official.
“Your grandmother pushed the pen into my hand.”
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