I placed a small candle beside her photograph.
And every year, Zane came.
He always sat at the far end of the table. He rarely looked directly at Jeremy, and he always found a reason to leave before dessert.
For years, I assumed he could not bear to see the pie.
I was wrong.
The First Words
Jeremy turned thirteen that spring.
On the eighth anniversary of Janice’s death, he behaved differently from the moment Zane arrived.
He watched his father remove his coat.
He watched him greet my parents.
He watched him take his usual seat at the end of the table.
Jeremy barely touched his food. His shoulders remained tense, and his eyes followed every movement Zane made.
Halfway through dinner, Jeremy slowly lowered his fork.
The soft clink against the plate was barely audible.
Yet it silenced the entire room.
He looked at me first.
Then at my parents.
Finally, he turned toward Zane.
His hand rose from the table, and one finger pointed at his father.
“You always knew why I stopped talking.”
His voice sounded unfamiliar, deeper than the voice I remembered, but fragile at the same time.
My chair scraped against the floor as I stood.
“Jeremy?”
His eyes widened as if he had frightened himself.
His breathing became quick and shallow. He pushed away from the table, ran upstairs, and slammed his bedroom door.
I started after him, but Zane reached out and caught my wrist.
“Give him a moment,” he said. “He needs to calm down.”
I looked at Zane’s hand, then lifted my eyes to his face.
For eight years, I had seen sorrow there. Guilt, perhaps. Regret.
But what I saw that night was unmistakable.
Fear.
I pulled my wrist away.
“What did Jeremy mean?”
Zane shook his head too quickly. “This date is difficult for him. He’s overwhelmed.”
“Don’t dismiss this,” I warned him. “Not after eight years.”
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