I laughed.
“We ate dinner at that crooked table for months. He kept promising to fix it, then started another project.”
Nathan grinned.
“That sounds like Grandpa.”
“It sounds exactly like your dad.”
He sat across from me.
“Tell me about the table.”
I began describing our first apartment and the evening Michael tried to impress me by building something himself.
Halfway through, my voice caught.
Three years earlier, I would’ve changed the subject.
Instead, I took Nathan’s hand.
“I still miss him, honey.”
“Me too, Mom.”
I squeezed his fingers and finished the story.
For the first time in three years, remembering Michael didn’t feel like something my son and I had to do alone.
