“When?”
“When I got myself together.”
“And when was that?”
“I don’t know.”
“A year later?”
He looked down.
“Two?”
Nothing.
“Ten?”
“Diane.”
“Mom called hospitals for you.”
“I know.”
“She kept your room the same for six years.”
His face crumpled.
“I know.”
“She thought you were dead.”
“I know.”
“You don’t get to keep saying that.”
He started crying.
“I was ashamed.”
“You didn’t have to come back fixed.”
He looked at me.
“You just had to come back alive.”
Nobody spoke.
Michael had eventually met Noah’s mother.
He told her he was estranged from his family after a terrible falling-out.
That was technically true.
Except we’d never participated in the falling-out.
We didn’t even know it existed.
Years passed.
Then returning became harder.
Every birthday he missed became another reason to stay away.
Every Christmas. Every death. Every milestone.
“I kept thinking you’d hate me.”
“I did hate you sometimes.”
