He was 18 now.
“You’re going to spill that, Mom,” Ethan said, glancing up.
“Sorry, honey.” I forced a smile. “I’m just thinking.”
That was a lie I told a lot. The truth was, I’d spent two decades thinking and saying almost nothing out loud.
Richard was upstairs on another one of his long calls. He took them into the study with the door closed, his voice dropping in a way I didn’t recognize anymore. When I asked, he’d say it was work. When I pressed him, he’d say I worried too much.
