For months Olivia had treated the chair as a throne. Now she sat in it like someone waiting for a verdict.
Michael remained standing.
“I’ll go with you,” he said.
Olivia looked up.
“What?”
“I’ll help you pack.”
“You’re leaving me?”
“I’m not leaving Claire.”
“Then you are.”
Michael glanced at his daughter.
Claire stood close to Eleanor, but she was not touching her.
“I should have stopped this,” Michael said. “I kept telling myself I was staying out of it. I wasn’t. I was choosing the person who made the least noise.”
Olivia’s eyes hardened.
“You’re weak.”
“Yes,” he said. “I was.”
The admission seemed to take the strength out of her anger.
Miriam gave them until sunset to gather documents and necessities. A deputy would return in the morning to oversee the removal of the remaining property.
Olivia went upstairs.
Michael followed, but Claire stayed behind.
Eleanor sat at the kitchen table. Her hands had begun to ache, though she could not remember clenching them.
Claire stood by the blue chair.
“Was it really yours?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Why did you let Mom have it?”
Eleanor looked at the worn blue fabric, at the small tear near one armrest that had been repaired with careful stitches.
“Because she was pregnant with you, and her back hurt.”
Claire lowered her eyes.
“She used to say you gave it to her because you didn’t want it.”
“That was not true.”
“Why didn’t you correct her?”
