That contradiction haunted me more than a cartoon villain ever could.
People wanted me to say Ryan had always been evil.
He had not.
He had been funny.
Generous.
Patient.
And somewhere along the road, or perhaps somewhere I had failed to see from the beginning, entitlement had eaten through whatever conscience he once possessed.
My mother spent six weeks sleeping in my guest room.
Every time a car slowed outside, she looked toward the window.
She stopped riding the bus.
Stopped opening the door after dark.
Once, I found her in the kitchen at three in the morning holding one of Ryan’s old coffee mugs.
She turned it slowly between her hands.
“I gave him this.”
I leaned against the counter.
“I remember.”
“Father’s Day.”
“I remember.”
“It said Best Son-in-Law.”
She smiled without humor.
“I stood in the store for twenty minutes deciding between this one and World’s Okayest Son-in-Law.”
