walk into my kitchen and take a plate.”
Bradley set down his father’s old sailboat mug a little harder than necessary.
“Why are you making this ugly?”
I stared at him.
For one strange second, I remembered every version of my son.
Bradley at six with chicken pox.
Bradley at eleven crying after his dog died.
Bradley at seventeen asking us for money to repair his car.
Bradley at twenty-three standing next to his father in a rented tuxedo on his wedding day.
Now he was fifty, standing in my
