asking you to change that.”
“Then what are you asking?”
She closed the book.
“Why was it so hard to talk about her?”
I insisted that we had discussed Maisie, but Aurora disagreed.
“We talked about Maisie.”
“Not really, Mom.”
“That’s not true.”
“When I was six, I found her photograph in Dad’s drawer. Remember?”
I remembered the yellow duck-patterned onesie and Maisie’s tiny hand gripping Arthur’s finger.
“You told me she was my sister,” Aurora continued. “Then you put the photograph away.”
“I didn’t want to upset you.”
“I
