“You stopped talking about him.”
“Because every conversation reminded me he wasn’t coming home.”
Nathan stared at his hands.
“Sometimes I forget what Dad sounded like. Grandpa tells me stories I don’t remember.”
My heart ached.
“I should’ve told you stories, too.”
“You still could.”
I took his hand.
“Come with me.”
In my bedroom closet was a box I hadn’t opened since Michael died. Inside were his notebook, a photograph, his broken watch, and several folded papers.
Nathan picked up a drawing of the rocking chair.
In the corner, Michael had written, “For our little boy.”
“He made this for me?”
“Before you were born.”
“Why didn’t you show me?”
“Because I couldn’t bring myself to look through any of it.”
Nathan studied the drawing.
“I wasn’t trying to hurt you, Mom.”
“I know. But you frightened us, and you pulled Cole into the lie.”
