Things I Refuse to Say Aloud

I kept the silver token where Leanne could not see it. Not because I trusted the depot office, and not because I wanted to protect her. I wanted the time to think before the granddaughter said anything that could not be taken back.

When she pointed, I felt that sick little drop of certainty in my stomach. Recognition is not proof, but certainty is greedy. It wants to become evidence before anyone has had the chance to be careless. I wanted Leanne to lie badly enough for me. Instead, she denied knowing Iris with this locked, almost respectful calm, as if politeness could close the northern hospital exit for her.

The worst part is that her route sheet frightens me more than the medical box does. A box can be borrowed, mislaid, or planted. A route sheet leaves ordinary decisions stamped in ink. Someone expected to be noticed and chose the safer exit anyway. I keep thinking about what kind of person protects a stranger like that without even knowing whose life they are carrying.

I called my mother and gave her the clean version of my life: coastal work, fish and chips, nothing useful enough to worry about. I wanted to tell her that the woman raised me might lose the house while I sleep with a route sheet under my pillow. Instead, I made my voice sound steady and deleted every photograph from my phone.