Lucille stared at the woman who had claimed to be her mother, sitting still on the sofa, her fingers which were sprawled on her lap twitching at intervals, her head bowed as if in thought.
She wondered what the woman, Sheila, was thinking about ten to fifteen minutes after Maryanne had announced that she, Lucille, was her daughter.
There hadn't been a word spoken between them since then.
Was the woman thinking of another strategy? She thought, furrowing her eyebrows.
Left to her, Lucille thought that the woman should end this quest and go back to wherever she had come from. She could tell, from the scowl which kept getting deeping and wider on Tyler's face, that he was getting impatient, and might end up slapping and pushing the woman away from here.
The thought of that had her digging her fingers into her pajamas so strongly, that her lap hurt.
