“Thank you for this food, for this home, and for second chances. Amen.”
“Amen,” I echoed.
After dinner, we sat on the porch. The air was cold and the sky was clear. Robert wrapped himself in a blanket, and I could see his breath in the dim light.
“Mom, can I ask you something?”
“Always.”
“Are you happy?”
I thought about it.
Really thought about it.
About Daniel. About the motel. About the letters and the money and the choices I had made.
“I’m getting there,” I said.
He smiled. “Good. You deserve it.”
On December fifteenth, six months to the day after Robert moved into Willow Street, I invited him to the penthouse.
“Get dressed,” I said over the phone. “Something nice. Meet me at 785 Park Avenue at two.”
“Mom, what—”
“Just trust me.”
He showed up in a suit, the same one he wore to Daniel’s funeral, but pressed and clean. The doorman let him in without question. The elevator opened directly into the apartment.
