Nathan picked up a drawing of the rocking chair.
In the corner, Michael had written, “For our little boy.”
“He made this for me?”
“Before you were born.”
“Why didn’t you show me?”
“Because I couldn’t bring myself to look through any of it.”
Nathan studied the drawing.
“I wasn’t trying to hurt you, Mom.”
“I know. But you frightened us, and you pulled Cole into the lie.”
“I thought you’d make me stop going.”
I nodded.
“I gave you reasons to think that.”
Then I showed him a photograph of Michael holding a badly burned pie.
“Your dad once tried making Thanksgiving dessert without following the recipe. He insisted the black crust was intentional.”
Nathan laughed.
“Tell me something else.”
For the first time in years, I told my son stories about his father without searching for a reason to stop.
The following Saturday, I drove Nathan to Frank’s house. Denise had agreed to let Cole help for the afternoon.
