“Slowly.”
I pointed at her.
“You were doing so well.”
Later, after gifts, after dessert, after the children had begun falling asleep on the couch, I stood near the front door pulling on my coat.
Michael walked me outside.
The air smelled like wood smoke.
Christmas lights reflected off the cars.
He shoved his hands into his pockets.
“Last year was terrible.”
“Yes.”
“I still think about what you said.”
“What did I say?”
“That you spent thirty-four years making hard things easier for me.”
I looked at him.
Michael continued.
“I used to think that was what being loved felt like.”
“And now?”
He thought.
“Now I think sometimes being loved feels like somebody letting you deal with your own mess.”
I smiled.
“Very poetic.”
“I’ve had a year.”
“You have.”
He hugged me.
When he stepped back, I reached into my handbag and handed him a small wrapped box.
He frowned.
“I already opened my gift.”
“This one is different.”
He tore the paper.
Inside was Robert’s watch.
Michael stopped.
He had asked about it once after his father died.
I had told him I wasn’t ready.
Then years passed.
His thumb moved over the worn leather band.
“Mom.”
“Your father wore that through almost everything.”
Michael looked at me.
“I know.”
“He was terrible at keeping time.”
