“She appears intelligent.”
“Infuriatingly.”
Miriam reached across the table and took Noah’s hand.
“You are kinder than anyone had a right to expect.”
Something changed in Noah’s face.
“My mother would disagree.”
The words escaped before he could decide whether to offer them.
Miriam’s grip tightened.
“Then your mother is wrong.”
Noah looked at her.
She did not soften the statement.
“Elias told me you worried we might be uncomfortable about you and Reid.”
“That was in the hospital.”
“I know.”
She glanced toward me.
“You look at each other the way most people are fortunate to be looked at once in their lifetime.”
Noah’s cheeks colored.
“My family is large,” Miriam continued. “Loud. Opinionated. Frequently exhausting. We have gay children, divorced children, adopted children, and children who voted badly enough that they nearly lost Christmas privileges.”
“Miriam,” Elias muttered.
“The point is that love is not a reward for obedience.”
Noah’s eye shone.
Miriam squeezed his hand.
“Anyone who teaches a child otherwise has failed the child. Not the other way around.”
He lowered his gaze.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
They stayed almost an hour.
Longer than Noah’s energy could comfortably manage, but he never asked them to leave.
Before they went, Miriam invited us to a late-summer gathering at their property outside town.
“Nothing formal,” she said. “Food. Grandchildren. One dog with no respect for plates.”
