“No.”
He put the ring down.
“Neither do I.”
I moved closer.
“What do you mean?”
“About you. You’re Grandma’s son.”
I smiled.
“Yes.”
“And I’m yours.”
“Yes.”
He nodded once, satisfied.
Then he pushed the chair neatly beneath the table.
Not to erase his place.
Not because someone told him to make room for better people.
Because dinner was over.
He took my hand.
“Can we play before bed?”
“We have twenty minutes.”
“The real twenty?”
“The real twenty.”
He grinned and led me toward the sitting room.
Behind us, the chairs remained around the table.
They could be moved.
Repaired.
Replaced.
My son’s place in our family could not.
And this time, I intended to make sure he learned that from the ordinary days—not only from the night someone tried to take it away.
