She hated Leo’s hair.
Not in the harmless, old-fashioned way some relatives dislike long styles on little boys.
Brenda hated it like it offended her personally.
Every visit came with some cutting remark.
Mark shut her down every time.
He never raised his voice, but he got very still when he was angry, and that stillness always made Brenda back off for the moment.
“Leo’s hair is not up for discussion, Mom,” he would say.
She would smile that stiff, polished smile and move on, but I never believed she’d accepted it.
Brenda didn’t accept things.
She waited.
When her car finally pulled into the driveway just after two, I was outside before the tires stopped rolling.
I opened the back door and Leo looked up at me with a face so wet and blotchy it barely looked like my child.
