Then I heard, “Diane?”
I covered my mouth.
Twenty-one years.
Twenty-one years, and my brother said my name as if we’d spoken last week.
Noah handed me the phone.
I couldn’t take it.
Tyler touched my shoulder.
Finally, I did.
“Michael?”
His breathing changed.
“Diane.”
I closed my eyes.
“You’re alive.”
“I’m sorry.”
That was all he had.
Two words.
I had imagined this moment a thousand times.
In some versions, the police found him.
In others, he appeared at Mom’s door.
Sometimes I screamed.
Sometimes I hugged him.
I never imagined standing in my kitchen beside my son’s boyfriend while two police officers waited near my pot roast.
“Mom died,” I said.
Michael started crying.
“I know.”
My anger arrived so fast it frightened me.
“You know?”
“I found the obituary.”
“You knew?”
“Diane, please.”
“She waited for you.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
Everyone was staring at me.
