“Whatever happens, he always has a home. Not a house, Russ. A home.”
Four months after the funeral, I met Colleen at a gallery opening on South Congress. She was warm, funny, and good with a room. She asked smart questions about a Spanish colonial crucifix I’d just authenticated. Fourteen months ago, we were married in her mother’s church.
After Mason finally fell asleep on the couch, I went to the laundry room to switch his sheets to the dryer. Taped above the machine, at adult eye level, was an index card in Dolores’s careful cursive.
His clothes must not be mixed with ours. He’s not our blood.
I stood there holding that card for a long time.
Then I went back to the couch, sat on the coffee table, and watched my son breathe. Around 1 a.m., he stirred and opened one eye.
“Dad? There’s something else,” he said. “In Grandma’s wardrobe. I wasn’t snooping. I swear.”
