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Grandma never made too much soup by accident.

I found her on the porch with two bowls and a plate of cornbread. Grandpa Alfonse was inside, watching television loud enough to include the neighborhood.

I took the chair beside her. “What kind?”

“Chicken.”

“I ate lunch.”

“I know no such thing.”

I looked at her. She pointed at the bowl.

I ate.

For several minutes, we listened to Grandpa object to a game-show contestant’s strategy.

Then Grandma said, “I miss her.”

The spoon stopped halfway to my mouth. I lowered it. “I thought you were angry.”

“I am.”

“Then why are we discussing this?” I asked.

“Because anger and love aren’t mutually exclusive.”

I stirred my soup listlessly.

Grandma tore a piece of cornbread. “I have been thinking.”

I waited.

“Sloane lied,” she said. “Badly and for too long. Not to mention, she hid her true identity from us.”

“Yes.”

“But she also loved us.”

I stared at her. “You don’t know that.”

Grandma looked at me. “You don’t know that she didn’t.”

“I don’t know anything at this point.”

“You know plenty.”

“I don’t even know whether Sloane is her name.”

“It is.”

“How can you be certain?” I asked.

“I saw her driver’s license.”

I turned toward her. “When?”

“The night of your grandpa’s birthday party.”