father sat slowly in his recliner, the same one from that day. I remained standing.
Leo wandered toward the mantel and studied the photos.
“Is that Mom?” he asked, pointing to a picture of me in a graduation gown.
“Yes,” my father said. His voice cracked slightly. “That’s your mom.”
“She looks nervous.”
“She was always nervous before big things,” my mother said, returning with water. “But she always did them anyway.”
I looked at her.
It was such a small sentence. Such an ordinary motherly thing to say.
It hurt more than an apology.
Leo accepted the glass. “Thank you.”
My mother smiled through tears. “You’re welcome, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart.
The word settled uneasily in the room.
My father leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Does Noah’s family know?”
“No,” I said.
My mother’s face crumpled.
“Diane doesn’t know she has a grandson?” she asked.
“No.”
“That woman mourned herself sick,”
