On the back, he had written:
I forgot this was your life before it became my shelter. I’m sorry. Thank you for making me leave before I destroyed what was left of us.
I read it twice.
Then I looked at my son.
He did not ask whether I forgave him.
That was how I knew he had changed more than I expected.
Dinner was awkward.
Of course it was.
Healing is not smooth. It bumps into chairs. It looks down at plates. It says please and thank you too carefully. It avoids old jokes because no one yet knows which ones still hurt.
But no one took my seat.
No one touched Helen’s chair without asking.
No one laughed at cruelty.
When the cake came out, Lily lit the candles.
Seventy-one candles would have burned the house down, so she used seven and one.
Everyone sang.
Brian’s voice cracked halfway through.
