Instead, he walked to the sink and braced both hands against the counter.
For a long time, he said nothing.
Then, without turning, he asked, “Does he hate me?”
June’s answer came immediately.
“No.”
“You can’t know that.”
“He is my son, Adrian. I know some things.”
A sound escaped him.
Not quite a laugh.
Not quite anything I wanted to name.
June stared into her untouched tea.
“I should have told you.”
He turned.
“Yes.”
She nodded.
“I kept finding reasons not to.”
“My father?”
“At first.”
“And after he died?”
June’s eyes filled.
“Then it was me.”
That answer seemed to hurt him more than the others.
But he stayed in the room.
The next morning, June asked me to drive her home.
Adrian offered a car.
She shook her head.
“Mara knows where I keep the spare key.”
It was true.
I had taken groceries to her twice when her knee was bad.
The cottage was smaller than most of the guest suites at Adrian’s house.
There were geraniums on the windowsill, a yellow kettle, and a shallow bowl of buttons beside the sewing machine.
June stood in the doorway for a long moment.
“I thought I might never come back.”
I put down her overnight bag.
“You should have told someone.”
“I was ashamed.”
“Of the loan?”
“Of needing help.”
I looked around the cottage.
The curtains had been repaired by hand.
A small electric heater stood beside the chair where she watched television.
On the wall hung photographs I had never examined closely.
A young man holding a fish.
The same man beside a woman in a blue wedding dress.
A little girl missing two front teeth.
Noah.
His wife.
His daughter.
They had been there all along.
June saw me looking.
