“You told my grandson,” Lenora said, “that if he spoke, I would be locked in a place with no door handles, and he would never see me again.”
Craig flinched.
“He’s eight years old.” Her voice finally broke, just once, like a glass hairline cracking. “He slept on a floor for two weeks to keep me safe from my own son.”
“I didn’t mean — he’s a kid, he wouldn’t understand —”
“He understood better than you.”
My mother’s hand shook as she touched the edge of the table.
“I waited three weeks for you to put that phone down, Craig. I sat on the edge of that bed every night with a notebook and a pen and prayed that you would. Every night.”
Craig started to cry.
It was an ugly sound, and I didn’t feel anything.
I only felt the small, warm weight of my son’s hand creeping into mine.
