Chapter 9
My mother blamed herself.
Of course.
Margaret sat in the conservatory two days later after staff replaced the broken ceramics.
She looked at the stone table where the inhaler had landed.
“I should have seen it.”
“No.”
“She was jealous.”
“Yes.”
“I knew.”
“That is not the same as knowing she would do this.”
Margaret looked toward the citrus trees.
“I pushed you to marry her.”
True.
She liked Tove initially.
Elegant.
Socially skilled.
Good with guests.
No obvious cruelty.
Then small things emerged.
Tove rolled her eyes when Mireya interrupted adult dinners.
Complained about childproof locks.
Said the house revolved too much around “tiny emergencies.”
Margaret noticed.
She excused it.
So did I.
Because none of it looked large enough alone.
May you like
That was the lesson.
Patterns announce themselves quietly before catastrophe gives them a headline.
