She folded her arms on the table, and her face took on a bitterness I’d never expected to see in her. “Dad lives in New York with a woman I’ve never met, and Mom lives in Chicago and is married to a guy I met once and instantly hated. I haven’t talked to him in five years or her in three. They divorced after he cheated on her, and neither of them has done much to deserve my respect or my affection. I don’t know what they’re doing, or who they’re with, and to be perfectly honest, I don’t care.”

She stalked to the kitchen with her plate and dumped the rest of her meal into the sink, then slammed the plate onto the counter and headed for her room. The door thunked shut, and I remained where I was, left in utter amazement that someone so sweet and kind could harbor such resentment and never mention it. I didn’t know she had it in her.

I knew better than to go after her, so I cleaned the dishes and settled down in the living room to channel surf. An hour passed. Then another. I perused her video collection, determined not to go anywhere until we’d talked again, and popped in a Disney movie I’d last seen in the theatre when I was eight. I made some popcorn and got comfortable on the couch.

Sometime after ten the door to Grace’s room opened. I quickly turned down the volume and listened for her footsteps, hearing instead a small, tired voice say, “You’re not leaving, are you?”

“Nope.” Silence again, and then her steps down the hall. She dropped into the armchair and stared at me sullenly. I turned off the TV and settled sideways on the couch, waiting patiently for her to speak.

“I’m sorry.

“Its all right.”

“No, it’s not. I shouldn’t have walked out like that.”

“You were mad; it’s okay.”

“It’s not okay. I wasn’t mad at you, and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you like that. You were just curious, and I … ” She looked like she might cry. I nudged the tissue box on the coffee table closer to her with my foot, and she grinned slightly.

We were silent for a while, and after a bit I got up and filled her teakettle with water, having noticed in recent months that she made tea whenever she was stressed. She was staring out the window, looking distracted, and I was suddenly afraid I’d overstepped a boundary somewhere, that I should have simply left her alone and gone home. I set the tea on the coffee table and asked quietly, “Should I just go?”

She looked up quickly, as if I’d startled her. A look of vulnerability? fear? crossed her face. “Do you have to?”