Inside, the room smelled like reheated coffee and wet jackets.
After a while, he asked me:
“Do you think she’ll come home soon?”
“I hope so.”
“She already walks slowly.”
I smiled a little.
“Walking slowly isn’t a bad thing. Sometimes it just means someone has carried a lot for other people.”
That was the first time he really looked at me.
“She makes my breakfast every day,” he said. “When my mom leaves early, Grandma gets there before I even wake up.”
I nodded.
“Sometimes she makes me toast. Sometimes warm milk. But she’s always there.”
He rubbed his finger along the edge of the table.
“I thought she would always be there.”
That was all he said.
And he didn’t need to say anything else.
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