“Eliza . . . beth,” my mother calls softly from the living room. She says my name the same way she consumes her Werther’s candies: slowly, deliberately. It’s like she’s savoring it. My shoulders drop, sinking to a place familiar to those who have faced defeat. I know I’ll never hear her say it again—my name, the one she gave me. I wish I could reach out and grab it, stow it away in a safe place, like some sort of family heirloom. But it belongs to this moment. Like her, it’s not something I can keep forever. I take a deep breath and release the knife from my hand. It thuds against the cutting
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