I couldn’t breathe right.
Twenty years of Christmas mornings folded up inside me and pressed on something soft.
“Raymond watched,” Caleb said. “He knew you’d want us and that you’d visit us. He knew you’d fall in love. He said he trusted your heart.”
“He trusted my heart,” I repeated.
“Please don’t hate him, Mom,” Caleb said.
“How long?” I asked. My voice didn’t sound like mine.
“He told us two months ago.”
“We didn’t know how to say it. We tried. Every visit. Every phone call. We couldn’t,” Noah confessed.
I stood up too fast, and the chair scraped behind me. I walked to the kitchen because I needed a wall between me and that basket. I put both hands flat on the counter and tried to remember what breathing was supposed to feel like.
Raymond.
My best friend.
Raymond, who drove me to every court date. Raymond, who sat outside Judge Marsh’s chambers with two cold coffees. Raymond, who never dated, never married, and never said a word about wanting anything for himself.
Raymond, who laughed when I teased him about being alone.
Oh God.
