“Grandpa said Dad once ruined a table because he cut one leg too short.”
I laughed at the memory.
“He did. We ate dinner at that crooked table for months.”
“Why didn’t he fix it?”
“He said he would. Then he started another project.”
Nathan chuckled.
“That sounds like Grandpa.”
“It sounds exactly like your dad.”
He sat opposite me.
“Tell me about the table.”
I described our first apartment and the evening Michael tried to impress me with something he’d built. Halfway through the story, emotion tightened my throat. Nathan waited patiently.
Three years before, I would have changed the subject. Instead, I reached for his hand.
“I still miss him, honey.”
“Me too, Mom.”
I held his fingers and finished telling him what happened. At last, remembering Michael felt like something we could share, rather than a burden either of us had to carry alone.
