“You’re not dragging me anywhere. You’re my mother.”
“I know,” she whispered. “I know. But I didn’t want you to look at me and see the old house. The old kitchen. The cupboards with nothing in them. I didn’t want you to remember.”
Brent stood there in his bathrobe in the middle of the driveway, barefoot on the gravel.
“Remember what?” Tyler asked quietly beside me. He didn’t mean to. It just slipped out.
But I knew. Somehow I knew already.
My father had walked up from the bean rows. He was standing a little way off, near the edge of the garden, holding his bucket. He hadn’t said anything. He was just watching.
Brent’s mother turned and saw him.
“Arne,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know he was your neighbor. I swear, I didn’t know.”
