The price tag was gone.
I later learned he’d kept it in his wallet, tucked behind his driver’s license.
He had a folder under his arm.
Inside were the legal documents necessary to transfer guardianship to Mom, with me named as the next caregiver if anything happened to her.
Ray had signed everything.
He walked toward the front door and stopped in front of my mother.
“The wall’s done,” he said.
Then he lowered the car seat onto the porch.
“She’s home.”
He turned toward the driveway, apparently intending to leave before anyone could make the moment more difficult than it already was.
But Mom caught his sleeve.
After twenty-five years of secrets, a husband buried in the ground, and a daughter she’d never get to hold again, my mother refused to let that man walk away.
“Where do you think you’re going?” she demanded.
Ray looked back at her.
