“Tomorrow?”
“I’ll talk to you before any conversation or visit.”
He nodded.
“Are you angry?”
“Yes.”
“With me?”
“No.”
“Because Grandma said about you?”
“No.”
He sat on the bed.
“I didn’t know.”
“You don’t need to apologize for not knowing every part of my story.”
He looked at the blanket.
“I thought maybe you were different.”
“Different how?”
“More family than me.”
The words hurt.
I sat beside him.
“I am your father. You are my son. Grandma is my mother. None of us is a smaller version of those things.”
Theo stared at me.
Then he shifted closer.
I put an arm around him.
For a long time, we listened to the house settle.
A car left the drive.
Someone closed a cupboard downstairs.
Life continued around the conversation.
That helped.
Belonging was not only something declared during a crisis.
It was being allowed to fall asleep while the ordinary sounds of home went on.
When his breathing slowed, I stayed another ten minutes.
Then I went downstairs to hear what Camilla had to say.
The guests had left.
My mother remained.
Camilla stood beside the dining table.
Theo’s chair was still beside mine.
She looked at it as though it had become an argument made of wood.
“You’ve made me look terrible.”
I stopped at the doorway.
“You told a child he couldn’t sit with his family.”
“I was trying to establish a distinction.”
“Explain it.”
She folded her arms.
“There are family occasions, and there are occasions when we honor the lineage.”
My mother looked at her.
“Whose?”
Camilla blinked.
“The DeLuca family.”
“Then why were you seated?”
Silence.
