On the back of every ticket, in small letters, it says: The cafeteria made extras today.
David has made eleven payments. He’s never missed one. He sold his practice in the spring, paid off the IRS, and took a job as a staff accountant at a hospital in Bellevue. Not one of Malcolm’s. He said he needed to do it on his own.
He came to the house in June for the first time since the hospital. He stood on my porch for a long time before he knocked. When I opened the door, he couldn’t look at me.
“I don’t know how to say it, Mom,” he said.
“Then don’t say it yet,” I said. “Come in and have coffee.”
We sat at the kitchen table. We didn’t talk about the hospital. We talked about his kids. About Emma’s piano lessons. About the Mariners. At the end, at the door, he hugged me. A real hug. The first one in years.
