“Why?” he demanded.
“Because he’s your son.”
“He insulted you.”
“He’s scared.”
“Being scared doesn’t excuse cruelty.”
“No.
But grief makes people stupid.”
Richard looked at me for a long time.
Then he called Michael.
He never thanked me.
That didn’t matter.
For the first year, I told myself I could endure anything because of the comfort.
That was another truth.
I liked money.
Not jewelry.
Not cars.
Not private clubs.
I liked grocery stores.
I liked walking into a grocery store and putting strawberries in the cart in December without calculating whether strawberries meant I couldn’t afford detergent.
I liked turning the heat up when I was cold.
I liked fixing my car before something broke.
Richard once watched me standing in front of a pharmacy shelf comparing two nearly identical bottles of shampoo.
“The expensive one smells better,” he said.
“It’s twelve dollars.”
