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Our food arrived, interrupting the flow of painful memories. We ate in relative silence for a few minutes, both of us seemingly lost in thought.
The eggs were overcooked and the hash browns were greasy. But after months of diner food for me and shelter meals for him, it tasted like a feast.
“What about you?” Blaine asked eventually. “What were your worst moments?”
I set down my fork and considered the question. There had been so many dark days that they blended together into a general gray fog of sadness.
“Mother’s Day,” I said finally. “Every year, Richard would take me to brunch at some nice restaurant, and I’d sit there watching other families celebrate, listening to children thank their mothers for everything they’d done for them. And I’d think about how I’d failed as a mother because I hadn’t been enough to keep our family together.”
