“You refused to dance with me because your friends were watching.”
He laughed softly.
“I was thirteen.”
“I remember.”
He put the photograph back.
Then he reached for his phone.
A moment later, an old song began playing quietly from the speaker.
Richard used to play it whenever we cooked Sunday dinner.
Daniel looked at me.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Would you dance with me?”
I looked toward the pale-blue dress hanging in the next room.
Then back at my son.
He held out his hand.
There were still things we needed to talk about.
Still boundaries I expected him to respect.
And I wasn’t ready to pretend one dance could erase what had happened.
But I took his hand.
We moved slowly across the kitchen floor, careful of the table and the old wooden chairs.
Daniel laughed when he nearly stepped on my foot.
“Sorry. I’m rusty.”
“You were never particularly good.”
He smiled.
“Dad always said you led.”
“Your father was a terrible dancer too.”
We turned carefully beside the refrigerator.
The kettle began to whistle.
Daniel glanced toward the stove.
“Should I get that?”
