Marcus was her brother.
“And then Mom got sick,” she said. “And when you’re the only one who can manage something, you manage it. You stop
pursuing the other thing because the other thing can be postponed and this cannot.”
She pushed up her sleeve. A pale, thin scar ran along the inside of her forearm.
“An accident, years ago. Nothing serious medically, but modeling agencies noticed it. By then I’d already been backing away for other reasons. You tell yourself it’s temporary.” She looked at the photographs on the mantel. “One year becomes five. Five becomes ten. You’re thirty-six delivering food in the rain and you still tell yourself this is temporary.”
“When did your mom pass?”
“Three years ago.” A pause. “It was slow. And then it wasn’t.”
“And Marcus.”
“He’s good. He’s really good.” Her face changed when she said it — the genuine warmth of a person describing something they have chosen entirely rather than accepted under duress. “He works four mornings a week at a bakery three blocks from the apartment. He
