Mr. Brennan was quiet for a moment.
Then he said, “You’re not who I expected.”
“Neither am I.”
Robert showed up at the motel on July third.
I was folding laundry in the bathroom, underwear and T-shirts I had hand-washed in the sink, when someone knocked.
I opened the door.
He looked terrible. Unshaven, red-eyed, wearing the same wrinkled polo shirt he’d had on three days earlier.
“Mom.”
I didn’t invite him in. I just stood there holding a damp towel.
“Can we talk? Please?”
I stepped aside.
He came in, looked around the tiny room, the sagging bed, the stained carpet, the mini-fridge humming in the corner, and his face crumpled.
“Jesus, Mom. You’ve been living here for three months? Why didn’t you tell me?”
I almost laughed.
“Tell you what? That your wife threw me out and you let her? I think you knew.”
