Christmas decorations.
Photographs.
Then Ethan pulled out a sealed storage bin.
He opened it.
Stopped.
The wig.
Brown.
Soft.
Carefully preserved.
He sat on the attic floor.
“I forgot
I put this here.”
I sat beside him.
“You didn’t.”
He smiled.
“No.”
For a while, we said nothing.
Then:
“Do you think I was stupid?”
“At fourteen?”
“Yes.”
“Of course.”
He laughed.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“You were fourteen.”
Then:
“You were also kind.”
He touched the hair.
“I scared you.”
“Yes.”
“Lied by omission.”
“Yes.”
“Put Lily online without permission.”
“Yes.”
“Sold my computer.”
“Yes.”
He looked at me.
“You’re really enjoying this.”
“A little.”
Then I softened.
“You did something generous before you understood boundaries.”
He nodded.
“That sounds
better.”
“It shouldn’t erase the mistakes.”
“No.”
“Or the kindness.”
He looked back at the wig.
“Both.”
We had all learned the word.
Lily was forty by then.
