He stopped about ten feet from the woman in the tan raincoat.
They looked at each other.
“Mom?” he said.
The woman’s face crumpled.
She didn’t cry. Not right away. Her face just folded in on itself, like a paper bag when you crush it. She pressed the empty grocery bags harder against her chest.
“Brent,” she said. Her voice was very small. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here,” he said. He pointed back toward the gray house. His hand was shaking. “That’s my house. That’s… Mom, that’s my house.”
She turned and looked at it. The big gray house. The black windows. The three-car garage. The deck.
“I didn’t know,” she whispered. “I didn’t know which one was yours. You never… I’ve never been out here. You never invited me.”
Brent opened his mouth. Then he closed it.
“What are you doing here?” he said again. Quieter this time.
