Tonight was even quieter. Eva pulled apart her meat, ate half, pushed the rest around her plate. Isabel watched her at it. “That’s disrespectful.” Eva put down her fork. She seemed to be considering a thought. Then said, “Does nothing bring you joy, Isabel?” “What kind of question is that?” “A simple one,” said Eva. She sounded resigned. Isabel took a halted breath. An answer was at the back of her throat—she would speak it, she knew. If she did not stop it now she would speak it. She ate her potato and swallowed and still, words came. Unbidden, they still came: “What does it matter, what
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