He grinned. Greg’s grin. Crooked.
He came over and kissed me on the cheek.
“Love you, Mom,” he said.
“Love you too.”
He left.
At nine-fifteen that night, my phone buzzed.
Mom, Mr. Delgado taught us to play pinochle. He’s really mean at it. Cole lost eleven dollars. I’ll text you tomorrow. Love you.
And a picture. An old man in a hospital bed. Wearing a Vietnam veteran cap. Grinning. Holding a fan of playing cards. Two sixteen-year-old boys on either side of him. Laughing.
People ask me sometimes how I could forgive Nathan.
For lying. For eight weekends. For the thirty-six hours Denise and I spent sitting at my kitchen table thinking our boys were dead.
I tell them the truth.
There was nothing to forgive.
My son wasn’t hiding a girlfriend. He wasn’t doing drugs. He wasn’t at a party. He wasn’t in trouble.
