“Sherry,” my father said quietly.
She backed out of the room so fast the bag banged the doorframe.
I watched her go.
Again?
What did she mean, again?
“We’re leaving,” my mother announced.
She picked up her Birkin, hooked it over her wrist, and smoothed her hair.
“Michelle, you’ll hear from Irwin Danforth. Do not sign anything that man gives you.”
“That man,” I said, “is my son.”
My mother stopped.
She did not turn around.
“Don’t you dare call him that,” she said.
Then she walked out, and my father followed, and the door sighed on its hinge exactly the way it had in 1995.
The room was very quiet.
“I’m so sorry, hon,” she said. “I’ll be at the desk. I’m not letting them back in without your say.”
Then it was only the two of us, and the monitor, and the long gold light across the blanket.
He stood at the foot of my bed with his hands at his sides.
