“I’m in Rosie’s room, not to worry.”
“Not Rosie, Mom. We want to call her Roselore, her full name, so she doesn’t lose touch with its beauty, or the mother that gave it to her.”
“She should forget that mother,” Kikka said. “She probably already has. That mother gave her up.”
“That mother couldn’t take care of her and then died. We don’t know everything. She should think well of that mother, her birth mother, so she can think well of herself.”
“Well, you’re the one who took the parenting course. What do I know?”
Rudie set the chair in front of the window and stood on it to lift the iron curtain rod out of the holders. She unscrewed one of the fleur-de-lis finials and laid it on the windowsill, the white paint there black with grit from when she’d worked in here with the window open
