and said, “That sounds nice.”
And because I was their mother, I translated those scraps into hope.
So I cooked for seventeen people.
I scrubbed the baseboards.
Polished the silver until I could see my own tired eyes reflected in it.
Wrapped presents.
Set out red napkins, white linen, candles, name cards, and all the beautiful little proofs that I had not stopped loving them simply because they had stopped making room for me.
The dining room seemed to freeze around me that night.
The candles leaned and flickered.
The
