“I don’t know,” I said.
“They deserve to know,” my father said.
“I know that.”
“Tomorrow,” my mother whispered. “Before you lose your courage.”
I almost smiled at that, because it sounded like something the old version of her would have said.
The next morning, Ohio woke under a pale gray sky.
Leo ate cereal at my parents’ kitchen table while my mother watched him like he was both miracle and memory. My father stepped outside twice, pretending to check the car, but I knew he was nervous.
I was nervous too.
At ten o’clock, the four of us walked to the Whitakers’ house.
Every step felt heavier than the last.
Diane opened the door before we knocked, holding pruning shears and wearing gardening gloves. Her hair, once dark and thick, was mostly silver now. For one second, she smiled politely.
Then she saw me.
“Emma?”
“Hi, Diane.”
