“That’s when it started.” How much to say? This had to be one of the hardest conversations she’d ever had, and she’d had a few. “What do you know about your grandparents?”

“Not much.” Christy nibbled a piece of pastry. “They died before I was born. I’ve seen a few photos, but that’s it.”

Oh Elizabeth.

Robyn stared at the pattern on top of her coffee and reminded herself that everyone handled the past in different ways. “Your mother didn’t tell you anything about our childhood?”

“Not really. I know your father had a printing business. I know your parents were divorced.” Christy studied her. “From the look on your face, there’s plenty more she should have told me.”

Robyn felt a moment of doubt. If Elizabeth hadn’t told her daughter the truth, then was it Robyn’s place to do so?

“Robyn.” Christy leaned forward. “When it comes to difficult conversations, I’m a work in progress. I’m the first to admit I haven’t had much practice at tackling the difficult stuff. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned lately, it’s that avoidance isn’t a good strategy. So please tell me anything and everything, and I’ll handle it.”

Robyn pushed the cup away from her. “Our mother was an alcoholic.”

“Oh.” Christy sat back, surprised. “That I did not know.”

And yet it was such a big part of Elizabeth’s childhood, and a big part of who she became.

“We didn’t know it, either, at first. To us she was simply our mother. We knew her moods were unpredictable. One minute she’d be laughing and dragging us on elaborate picnics, and the next she’d be moody and angry. She could be one person in the morning, and a different person entirely by the time we came home from school in the afternoon. It was disorientating. Dad was working hard at the time, so she was the one at home, responsible for taking care of us. Except that she didn’t.” Robyn paused. “My earliest memory is of Elizabeth making me toast. I was four, and she was seven. She basically took care of me because our mother didn’t. It’s fair to say that she raised me.”

“She never said.” Christy sat still, cake and coffee forgotten. “She never once mentioned that. Why wouldn’t she?”

“It was difficult for her.” Robyn trod carefully. This was Christy’s mother they were talking about. “Our childhood wasn’t something she wanted to revisit once she’d left it behind.”

Christy picked up a spoon and poked at the foam on her coffee. “What about my grandfather? Where was he in all this?”

“My father knew some of it, although not all because he worked long hours and wasn’t in the house to see it. He knew that she drank. They fought about it all the time. The shouting was terrible. When they started, Elizabeth used to drag me from the room and turn up the volume on the TV so I couldn’t hear what was being said. But I still heard some of it.” Robyn picked up her coffee. Even now the memory of it made her cold. She curved her hands around the cup, taking comfort from the warmth seeping into her fingers.