At dinners she referred to childhood stories I could not possibly understand and then laughed when I asked questions.
Nolan’s uncle Arthur Hartwell forgot my name for almost three years.
But Vivian was the architect.
She never shouted at me.
That would have been too obvious.
She used politeness.
“Oh, Claire, that dress is brave.”
“You’re so practical. Nolan has always needed someone practical.”
“How nice that you don’t seem interested in expensive things.”
“You grew up in a much simpler family, didn’t you?”
Nolan heard most of it.
Sometimes he squeezed my hand under the table.
Sometimes he whispered afterward:
“That’s just Mom.”
I learned to hate that sentence.
That’s just Mom.
As if being consistently cruel became harmless once everyone agreed it was a personality trait.
There was only one Hartwell who never treated me like an outsider.
Nolan’s father.
Edwin Hartwell.
