“It’s okay,” she said. Her eyes were downcast as we walked into her room. The bed was still untouched. I sat on the end and waited for her to sit next to me, but she shut the door behind us and stood in the center of the small room instead, swaying back and forth with Shiloh in her arms. Her eyes were wide open and fully alert as she stared up at Mom adoringly.

“Do you still sleep on the floor?” I asked.

She nodded.

I hated asking her questions when she had spent most of the day getting drilled with them, but there was so much I wanted to know about her. I played with one of the loose strings on the comforter, twisting it around my finger. “Can I ask why? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I mean, I know you’re probably sick of everyone asking you questions.”

“We don’t sleep on beds,” she said matter of factly.

“How come?” I couldn’t imagine sleeping on a wooden floor. I hated sleeping on the floor even with our thick camping sleeping bags.

“We must put the flesh to death,” she said in a creepy robot voice.

I’d never heard her talk like that before. I didn’t want to ask any more questions about the bed. I eyed the room, taking in the dirty coffee-colored tone of the walls that Meredith and Dad swore they were going to tackle on their next home-improvement project. “What’s your favorite color?” I asked.

“Color?” she asked, like I’d surprised her, and she let out a small giggle before quickly slapping a hand over her mouth. Maybe they weren’t allowed to laugh either. “Red,” she finally said. “Red.” Almost like she had to say it a second time to reassure herself.

“Mine too,” I said. I’d been secretly hoping that was what she’d say. I patted the spot next to me. “Sit.”

She shook her head and turned the other direction so I couldn’t see her face anymore.

“You sit on the couches downstairs. What’s the difference?” I kept my voice as nonjudgmental as possible. “I really just want to know so I can understand. I want to know you, Mom.” It was the first time I’d called her Mom, and the word hung between us.

She turned back around, her eyes wet. “You must hate me.” Her voice trembled as she spoke.

“I could never hate you. You’re my mom.”

Tears slid down her cheeks. “And you’re my other daughter.”