“No.”
“Did he hurt younger children?”
“Drugs?”
“No.”
“Did he hurt younger children?”
“No.”
“Then what happened?”
Years earlier, after my husband died, Noah’s teachers called him difficult because he stopped talking in class.
“Different things. Luke is…complicated.”
I hated that word.
Years earlier, after my husband died, Noah’s teachers called him complicated because he stopped talking in class.
What they meant was that my grieving eleven-year-old no longer made their jobs easy.
“I’d still like to meet him.”
He glanced at the only empty chair and gestured towards it.
Luke stood when I approached.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Caroline.”
He glanced at the only empty chair and gestured towards it.
“Please, ma’am. You can sit here.”
I almost laughed.
We discussed the book in his hands for nearly an hour.
“I’m forty-seven, not ninety.”
His mouth twitched.
“I wasn’t implying anything.”
