Toby came home after that meet looking like he wanted to walk into the woods and become folklore.
“I can’t do this,” he muttered, dumping his spikes by the door. “She keeps acting like she’s in high school.”
I handed him a plate. “Eat first. Spiral later.”
He gave me a tired look. “Mom.”
“I know,” I said softly.
He sat at the table and pushed pasta around his plate. “Dad does not care.”
I sat across from him. “I know.”
That is the thing about being a mother. Sometimes your child says five words, and you can hear the entire wound underneath them.
A week later, Toby asked if I was coming to the annual high school charity auction.
“I wouldn’t miss it,” I said.
Our town takes that event seriously. It is held in the school gym every year. Families donate items, local businesses throw in gift baskets and services, and everybody bids on things they probably do not need because it is for a good cause and because small towns love public generosity.
I had decided to donate my grandmother’s sterling silver locket. It was not flashy. It was old, delicate, a little worn at the clasp. Maybe worth a hundred dollars on paper.
