My coffee suddenly tasted like ash.
Iris's expression shifted. "She contacted you."
Not a question. A statement.
"How did you—"
"You froze when I called you mom. Like actually froze. You haven't done that since..." She trailed off. "Since she left."
I should've known better. Iris had inherited the same observational curse I had. Nothing got past her.
"She texted," I admitted. "A few times."
"When?"
"Wednesday."
"And you didn't tell me."
"Didn't seem important."
Her fork clattered against her plate. "Are you serious right now?"
"Iris—"
"She's been gone for twenty months. Twenty. And you didn't think I'd want to know she finally reached out?"
"What was I supposed to say? 'Hey, Mom texted to tell us she's figuring herself out in California while we're here eating instant ramen and sharing one bedroom?'"
"Yes! Exactly that!" Iris stood up so fast her chair scraped. "I deserved to know!"
"And say what back to her? 'Thanks for abandoning us, glad you're having fun?'"
