what I did.”
“No.”
“But I can stop asking you to carry me.”
For the first time, my son sounded like an adult.
I touched the earrings.
Then looked at him.
“You can stay for dinner.”
His eyes filled with tears.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“But you’re washing the dishes.”
He laughed.
And for the first time in years, hearing it didn’t hurt.
That night, after Austin left, I stood beneath the stars on my porch.
The ocean was dark.
Salt carried on the breeze.
Ernest’s photograph rested on the small table
