“You saw me.”
“You were carrying boxes into the living room.”
I could almost see the scene.
The cardboard boxes from my father’s office.
The curtains my mother refused to replace.
A stranger’s car parked across the street.
Maybe Douglas had been sitting in it.
“Why didn’t you get out?”
His eyes filled.
“Your mother came outside.”
I gripped the letter.
“What did she say?”
“She recognized me immediately.”
Of course she did.
“She told me you’d finally recovered from me.”
A tear slipped down his temple.
“She said you’d built a good life. She said dragging the past back into it would only hurt you again.”
I shook my head.
“And you believed her?”
“No.”
“Then why—”
“Because you came to the door.”
I stopped.
“She turned around and you were standing there.”
A memory surfaced.
A summer afternoon.
My mother outside near the curb.
