“We’re not selling the cottage,” Marina said. “We’ll figure something out. I’ll move back for the summer. Help with treatments.”
So when their mother, Celeste, announced from her hospital bed that she was selling the family’s seaside cottage in Maine—the one their father had built by hand—the old fault lines cracked open.
Marina’s hand went to her throat. For a long moment, she said nothing. Then, quietly: “I was seventeen. I was so angry at you for leaving for college. And then she died, and I couldn’t admit I’d been so stupid. So I just… let you be the villain.”
“I know you’re awake,” Marina said. “You always breathe through your mouth when you’re pretending to sleep.”