It was the flip tone that did it. The calculated, cruel brightness, as if she thought there was a chance Erika might join her in playing the game they’d played for all those years, where they both pretended to be an ordinary mother and daughter having an ordinary conversation, when she knew that Erika no longer played, when they’d both agreed the game was over, when her mother had wept and apologized and made promises they both knew she’d never keep, but now she wanted to pretend she’d never even made the promises in the first place.
