Kant hesitated. When he spoke, his voice had grown softer, less certain. “They cared a lot about you.”

The coal of warmth forming in Margot’s chest abruptly turned cold. She fought to keep her faltering smile in place as she leaned back in her chair, putting some distance between herself and the photo. “Not enough to keep me apparently.”

She’d half expected Kant to argue, but he didn’t. He only watched and waited.

Margot rubbed at the back of her neck, fingers grazing through hair sticking to a slick of sweat forming there. “What…” She knew what she wanted to ask, but the question seemed so horrible and misguided that she tried to swallow it. Kant didn’t provide any break in the awful silence, though; he simply waited, and the words flew out of Margot before she could stop them. “What kind of parent sends their child away like that?”

He breathed in slowly, resting his crossed arms on the tabletop. “You lived with your father’s mother, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.” Margot had loved her. She’d been warm and patient and fair, and had raised Margot from the age of eight as though Margot had been her own. But it didn’t overwrite the knowledge that Margot had parents and that they had apparently been physically and financially capable of caring for her and yet hadn’t. “They never called, never—”

Never visited. No birthday cards. No response to the invitation to my eighteenth birthday party or to my graduation, or when I broke my leg and spent the night in the hospital. I thought they might come to Nanna’s funeral, but not even then.

Her smile felt as though it was going to break her face. “Didn’t they want me?”

This time, the silence that followed her question was horrendous. Margot lifted her head. Kant slightly opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked lost.

Flaming heat rushed up her throat and across her face. Stupid. She’d overstepped. Kant barely knew her. He was trying to view her as his potential employer. And she’d dropped that on him. Her own words echoed in her mind, growing more childish and whinier with every iteration. Didn’t they want me? Didn’t they want me?

“Forget I said that.” She stood too quickly. Her hand slipped and hit the mug; warm coffee poured across the table’s surface, running to the edges and dripping over. “Damn it—”

“I’ll get it.”

“Sorry. I’m really sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Kant had already grabbed a cloth from the kitchen and run it along the table’s edge to stem the overflow.

Margot’s face burned. She found a dishcloth at the sink, hung over the handle after its last use. It had become stiff as it dried, and crinkled when she flexed it. She knelt by the table, pressing the cloth into the spills before they could stain the rug.