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.
