“Mostly to you.”
“What kind of things?”
“You do not need them.”
“That bad?”
“Yes.”
He fell silent.
I reached across the table.
“Not every missing memory is a debt you need to repay.”
“I should remember why I stopped trying.”
“You stopped because contact with her hurt you every time.”
“Did I forgive her?”
“Repeatedly.”
“Did she change?”
“No.”
His eye shone.
“I still want her to call.”
“I know.”
“That makes me pathetic.”
“No.”
“I’m thirty-three.”
“You are still her son.”
He swallowed.
“She should care that I survived.”
“Yes.”
Agreement undid him more completely than comfort could have.
His face tightened.
I moved my chair beside his and opened my arms.
Noah leaned into me.
“I hate her,” he whispered.
“No.”
