Details were useful.
Evidence was useful.
I stood.
“Mom, come downstairs.”
Lila moved between Margaret and the door.
“No.”
It was the first completely unmasked word I had heard from her.
I stared at her.
She seemed to hear herself.
“I mean, she’s upset.
Moving her around when she’s like this isn’t good.”
“Move.”
“Daniel—”
“Move away from the door.”
She did.
Margaret rose slowly.
She was stiff from spending too much time in a room with nowhere comfortable to sit, but she walked without confusion.
At the stairs, she reached for the railing and descended carefully.
Lila followed us.
By the time we reached the living room, the calm mask had returned.
“Fine,” she said.
“You want to treat me like some kind of monster after everything I’ve handled alone? Fine.”
Margaret stopped beside the sofa.
“You told people I had dementia.”
“Because you need help.”
“Then why did you never arrange an evaluation?” I asked.
Lila blinked.
That question mattered.
If my mother had supposedly deteriorated enough to require confinement, there should have been something beyond Lila’s word.
An appointment.
A recommendation.
A professional assessment.
Some documented instruction that explained why a bedroom required an exterior lock.
Lila had nothing.
“I was going to,” she said.
“When?”
“I was waiting for you to come back.”
Margaret stared at her.
“You told Mrs.
Carter I had already been evaluated.”
Lila’s face went pale.
I remembered the conversation outside.
Mrs.
Carter had responded as though Lila had been describing an established condition, not a suspicion.
I walked to the front door.
Lila followed quickly.
“What are you doing?”
I opened it and looked across the street.
Mrs.
Carter was still outside near her porch.
I called her name.
Lila grabbed my arm.
“Daniel, don’t turn this into neighborhood gossip.”
I looked at her hand until she released me.
“You already made it neighborhood gossip.”
Mrs.
