We all laughed.
The boys began talking about dinosaurs, video games, and their favorite snacks.
Eleanor and I sat on the bench and talked about our families.
She told me about Daniel’s mother, about the years she had spent working as a school cafeteria assistant, and about how much she missed having someone to share the responsibility of raising a child.
I told her about our mother.
For the first time in a long time, I spoke about the grief without feeling that I needed to hide it behind jokes or practical concerns.
When Eleanor learned that I had been raising Theo since I was seventeen, she reached across the bench and gently squeezed my hand.
“You’ve done a good job,” she said.
I shook my head.
“I don’t always feel that way.”
“None of us does,” she replied. “Not when we’re responsible for someone we love.”
She looked toward the boys.
