But we loved each other fiercely.
The last night I saw her, rain tapped against the kitchen window while we stood across from each other at the table.
I was protecting her.
Lily had come home late. That night, I noticed the smudged mascara under her eyes.
“Where were you?” I asked.
“Out,” she said. “With friends.”
“Out where and which friends?”
She let out a tired breath. “Why does every answer turn into an interrogation?”
“Because you live in my house and I deserve to know where you are.”
She laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I’m 18, not eight.”
“And teenagers make bad decisions daily.”
Her expression hardened. “So that’s what you think of me?”
“Where were you?”
