"She does now. She was furious."
"Good."
"She also cried."
"Good."
"That doesn't fix anything."
"No."
"Did she ask about me?"
"All night."
I laughed once.
"That's 40 years too late."
"All night."
Dolly reached into her coat pocket.
"This is her number."
I looked at the paper in her hand but didn't take it.
"She wants you to call."
"Of course she does."
"This is her number."
"Do you want me to tell her no?"
I thought about Dad shutting that door in 1992.
Then I thought about Laura spending the next 34 years letting that one door speak for me.
"No."
Dolly waited.
"Tell her this instead. I know what Dad did. I know why she left. And I know she had years when she could've reached me herself."
I thought about Dad.
Dolly nodded.
"Anything else?"
"Yes."
I finally took the paper from her hand.
Dolly's eyebrows lifted.
"I'm not calling her."
"Anything else?"
"Then why take it?"
"Because I'm done having other people control what I know."
I folded the number once and slipped it into my purse.
"If Laura wants to see me, she can come to me."
"I'll tell her."
"And Dolly?"
"I'll tell her."
She stopped.
"Don't involve Sophie again."
"I won't."
"Good."
***
Three weeks passed.
Laura didn't come.
"I won't."
Oddly, that hurt less than I expected.
Maybe because this time I knew the truth.
