“And?”
“It helped enough that I went back.”
She looked down again.
“I’m glad.”
There was no bitterness in her voice. That somehow hurt more.
“I should have gone while we were married,” I said.
“We both should have.”
The admission sat between us, not as blame, but as truth.
Later that evening, Linda returned with soup. She placed it on Sophie’s tray and then turned to me.
“Can we talk outside?”
Sophie looked worried. “Mom—”
“It’s fine,” I said, standing.
Linda led me to a small family waiting area at the end of the hall. The room smelled faintly of coffee and disinfectant. A muted television played a cooking show no one was watching.
For a moment, Linda simply looked at me.
She had always been kind to me. Warm, even. She used to send me home with leftovers and call me son when Sophie and I visited for holidays.
