“Please don’t say that,” he said. His voice was thick. “Please don’t ever say that. This isn’t your fault, Claire. I swear to God, it isn’t your fault.”
I thought he was being sweet. I thought he was protecting me.
I turned around and held him, and I apologized. Can you believe that? I apologized to him.
“I’m sorry,” I said into his chest. “I’m so sorry, Ben. I know how much you want this.”
He didn’t say anything. He just held on.
Through all of it, there was Diane.
My own mother lived two hours away. She called every Sunday and asked, carefully, “Any news?” and I would say, “Not yet, Mom,” and she would change the subject to my dad’s tomatoes.But Diane lived ten minutes from us. Ben’s father had left when Ben was a teenager, and it had been just the two of them for a long time. She was a retired school secretary with silver hair cut in a sharp bob, and she had a way of showing up exactly when I needed someone.
