That Sunday dinner was over before it started.
Michael arrived two hours later.
When the doorbell rang, I couldn’t move.
Tyler opened it.
My brother stood outside.
He was 45 now.
Gray at his temples.
Lines around his eyes.
He’d gained weight.
But he was Michael.
My little brother.
Alive.
I didn’t hug him.
He stepped inside.
“Diane.”
I had only one question.
“Did Mom ever know?”
His eyes filled.
“No.”
That hurt worse than seeing him.
“Why?”
He looked toward Noah.
“Can we sit?”
“No. Tell me.”
Michael rubbed both hands over his face.
When he disappeared, he’d been drowning in debt.
He’d lost his job and hidden it from us.
He was ashamed.
He’d also been in a terrible place emotionally and convinced himself that disappearing would somehow free everyone from the mess he’d made.
He abandoned his car.
Left town.
Started over.
“I thought I’d come back,” he said.
