Mark's hands on the chair back had gone white at the knuckles. "She read my mail."
"She read what the printer gave her," Lydia said. Her voice was hoarse. "And she read what Helen's purse spilled. We were not subtle. We were only secretive."
"Don't you start being the honest one," Mark said. "You signed it. Your little name is on that page. You don't get to wash it off because she wrote you a kinder paragraph."
"I know what I signed." Lydia pulled the cardigan up onto her shoulder at last, a small domestic gesture that made her look more like herself and less like a figure in an argument. "I signed it in a hospital because you were both looking at me as if the price of being in this family was agreeing before I understood. That doesn't make the signature noble. It makes it mine to regret."