““Her voice seemed to loosen something in Greta’s stomach, some knot she’d been holding on to for years, and now the knot unraveled and rushed out of her, hot and wet. Mortified, she felt it maneuvering around the blood diaper, soaking the back of her nightgown, rolling down her legs sluggishly, as if it contained dirt or silt. She clutched her stomach. Well, this was embarrassing. What was this? Piss? Was she really pissing herself right now? She was too flustered to look. Yes, grief can be theatrical, she lectured herself. It can be extravagant. It wasn’t how she usually operated, but—oh well. Oh well, oh well, oh well. There was nothing wrong with her.””
