So, I lean forward, swiping the chessboard with a hard forearm. The pieces clatter to the floor, and surely people look. But I fixate on her and reach for her hands across the empty board.

Her hands find mine but hesitantly. “How romantic,” she says.

“I forfeit. Finish your story. Tell me about when she was down.”

“It was like she wasn’t there at all,” she says in a breath. “She spent nine days in bed once, only getting up to go to the bathroom. Nine days, barely eating. Nine days, no shower. Nine days, no groceries or money coming in. That was the worst time. I was… twelve.”

My hands tighten over hers. I’m heartbroken for her. “You must’ve been… terrified.”

She gasps, looking up at me, and admits in a whisper, “All the time.”

“Did she ever seek treatment?”

“Yes, on and off. Mel helped her find a good therapist, and she got on medication. It helped. That’s why we stayed put in Seagrove.”

I recall what Mom said about Marina bargaining for extra pills.

“But she’d forget to take them,” she continues with a wry smirk. “Or she’d think she took it, but we couldn’t be sure. Or she’d lose them. She’d miss appointments. And not pick up her refills. When she felt better, she didn’t think she needed them.”

“Even though she felt better because of them,” I breathe out.

“Exactly. We tried to make Seagrove work, but then, The Sound of Music. I didn’t tell her. It was the first thing I’d kept from my mother. I stayed after school every day, designing gorgeous sets and, I don’t know, having fun. People were kind to me, like Gil. They loved my work. I was seen. So, I made excuses, trying to keep her out of it. A week before the performance, she became depressed, and I was actually… glad. I wanted her pain to last, for her to be stuck in bed so that I could get through it without her blowing it up. I wanted something for me. It was selfish and wrong⁠—”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Yeah, it was, and it backfired. She found out,” she says, her beautiful face tainted with disgust at herself. “She showed up during Alleluia, off her meds and self-medicating. She came onstage, shouting, ‘Where’s my daughter? Where’s Marnie?’ No one knew what to do. She wasn’t herself. She made this huge scene, talking about how great I was and how, if she’d known, she would’ve been here, too. Helping. Proper momming, she called it. She melted into tears and apologies on stage. It took me twenty minutes to talk her down—a performance everyone got to see. Finally, I took her home.”

“Marina, that’s… I’m so sorry. You never should’ve been in that position.”

She shrugs. “I was okay in that position until then.”