“Yes.”
Daniel stepped back like I had hit him.
“Jesus Christ.”
“Daniel—”
“No.”
He pointed at me.
“You don’t get to say my name like this is normal.”
“I never said it was normal.”
“She’s twenty years older than you.”
“I can count.”
“She’s my mother.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying you know!”
His voice cracked.
That stopped me.
Behind the anger was grief.
His family had collapsed.
And now his oldest friendship had become tangled in it.
I lowered my voice.
“I’m sorry.”
He stared at the floor.
“I already lost my dad.”
“You didn’t lose him.”
“Yes, I did.”
His eyes filled.
“The man I thought he was.”
I understood.
Then he looked at me.
“And now this.”
“I’m still your friend.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“How am I supposed to sit at Thanksgiving with you holding my mother’s hand?”
That image was so absurd and painful that neither of us spoke.
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