“Then why did she say it?”
“Because Grandma is wrong about some things.”
“Specifically about me?”
“Yes.”
“Does she know she’s wrong?”
“Not yet.”
“Will she?”
“I don’t know. I hope so.”
He was silent for a moment.
Then he touched the Triceratops on his shirt.
“Triceratops were misunderstood too.”
“I know.”
“People thought their horns were just weapons. But they probably used the horns and frill to communicate.”
He glanced toward Lily.
“They were communicating the whole time. People just didn’t know how to read it.”
I swallowed.
“Yes.”
“It’s hard when you’re communicating and nobody notices.”
“It is.”
He looked at his sister.
“But some people notice.”
Without looking at him, Lily gently bumped her shoulder against his.
Noah bumped her back.
Three days later, Dad called me.
“I need to tell you something.”
I waited.
“I’ve known for a while that your mother says things about Noah.”
“Yes.”
“I kept telling myself it wasn’t serious enough to confront.”
“Yes.”
“I was wrong.”
I stayed quiet.
“I want to fix this.”
Dad explained that he and Mom had argued for days after the picnic.
Eventually, she agreed to see a family counselor.
“That’s more than I expected,” I admitted.
“She listened to Lily’s recording.”
I stiffened.
“All of it?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
Dad paused.
