“I had to work, Joel.”
“I know why you worked, Mom. I’m not eight anymore.”
He wiped his face.
“But I remember wanting you there.”
I reached for his hand.
“I’m sorry.”
He looked at me.
“When I was little, you were always doing something for me. Working, cooking, washing my clothes. I knew why. But I kept wishing you’d just sit beside me.”
He looked at the table.
“And now you come to my house, and I put you to work before you’ve even taken your coat off.”
For the first time that evening, he seemed to understand what he’d been doing.
I told him how I’d cried after that concert.
How Peter had brought home the program.
How I’d kept it for thirty years.
Joel looked toward the hallway.
“You kept it?”
“Every page.”
I went to the spare room and brought it back.
