The slant light of the afternoon sun streamed in through the kitchen window, glinted off the knife slicing the herbs. Marga watched Marissa wield the blade with calm precision. Her hands were steady, her movements sure, her eyes focused on her task. She was quiet in a way she hadn’t been before. Her temper had always been calm, had never flared like Marga’s, but now it seemed as if a part of Marissa had gone silent.

“Here.” Marga handed her the next bundle of herbs to cut.

Marissa accepted them without a word, still not able—or ready—to speak. Marga had tried, at first, to get her to talk, just as...