“We’re allowed one joke.”
“One,” I said.
They laughed.
It was the first time the whole thing felt survivable.
Michael and I visited Mom’s grave that fall.
He stood in front of her headstone for a long time.
Finally, he said, “I thought she’d hate me.”
I looked at him.
“She would’ve been angry.”
He nodded.
“She would’ve also wanted you home.”
Michael started crying.
This time, I put my hand on his shoulder.
That wasn’t forgiveness either.
But it was closer.
The following spring, I hosted another Sunday dinner.
I made pot roast again.
I used the same good dishes.
Tyler was there.
Noah too.
Michael sat across from me.
At one point, I looked around the table and thought about the first Sunday.
I’d cleaned the house because my son was bringing someone important home.
I’d worried about whether dinner would be good enough and whether I’d embarrass Tyler.
