Michael shook his head. “It's not my place.”
“Whose place is it?”
“Your mother's. She needs to tell you herself.”
Answers about my childhood.
“Then why won't she?”
“I can't answer that, Claire.”
Wonderful. Mom wouldn't talk, and now neither would he.
How many people knew something about my life that I didn't?
Then an idea occurred to me.
She needs to tell you herself.
“Come to dinner tonight.”
Michael stared at me. “What?”
“At my house. Seven o'clock.”
“No. I shouldn't have come here in the first place.”
“Why not?”
An idea occurred to me.
“Because I have a life, Claire. Children, grandchildren. I'm too old to start digging through the past.”
“Then don't. Just come to dinner.”
“What for?”
“For starters, you owe my mother an apology for what happened at the store.”
He looked down. “I know. But seeing her again…”
Start digging through the past.
“Michael, you can't expect me to walk away with half the story.”
