where they belonged.
My husband’s face was among them.
“It feels great too.”
I made coffee.
David sat with me at the kitchen table, and we talked.
Nothing dramatic.
No big apology.
No tearful speech.
Just a polite, grown-up conversation between a mother and her adult son.
Maybe that was better.
Change doesn’t always arrive through a grand confession.
Sometimes it shows up when a man remembers to knock before entering his mother’s house.
When David left, I walked him to the door.
“Thanks for the coffee, Mom.”
“You’re welcome.”
