I think about what would have happened if I’d read that note in the car and told myself I was imagining things. If I’d decided that a rich family’s strange dinner was none of my business, that Emily’s trembling hands were just nerves, that watery oatmeal was just a diet.
I think about Grace, six years gone before anyone thought to ask the right question.
And I think that the real twist in this story was never the money, or the pills, or the petition filed weeks too early.
It was how ordinary the silence looked from the outside. How much it resembled a happy family, right up until someone decided to stop pretending they couldn’t see it.
