Ernest’s photograph beside the window.
“No.”
Austin went quiet.
“I mean… not yet.”
“Mom—”
“I love you, Austin.”
His voice cracked.
“I love you too.”
“But loving you doesn’t mean living for you.”
He began crying.
I let him.
Sometimes tears were the first honest thing someone had left.
“I’ll see you when I’m ready,” I said.
Then I hung up.
Six months later, the ship returned to Miami.
I walked ashore carrying the same blue suitcase.
But the woman carrying it had changed.
Mrs. Mary waited near the terminal.
