His smile seemed uncertain.
For a stupid moment, I thought he’d come because he missed me.
“Jason!”
I hugged him before he could enter.
“Calm down, Mom,” he said, laughing. “I need to breathe.”
“You should have warned me. I would have died.”
“You’re always cooking.”
“Because you always come hungry.”
He came in, looked around, and set his bag down by the stairs.
Once again, his eyes lingered there.
I made coffee and cheese toast, the lunch he loved when he was twelve.
For an hour, everything seemed normal.
He told me about a difficult customer.
I reminded him of the time he’d glued his hand to a science experiment.
“I was nine,” he protested.
“You were confident.”
“I was an innovator.”
“You cried until the paramedic promised not to tell your teacher.”
Jason laughed.
Then the sound faded.
He checked his phone, turned it face down, and stared at his coffee mug.
“Is Emily okay?” I asked.
“She’s okay.”
“Are you?”
He rubbed his thumb along the handle.
“Mostly.”
I waited.
Mothers learn that sometimes silence reveals more truth than questions.
Jason stood up and walked over to the window.
He looked toward the c
