He held up a drawing: our family standing on the front porch. My mother was in the upstairs window, surrounded by flower boxes.
“I didn’t know what kind of flowers you liked, so I drew all of them.”
She took it carefully like it might fall apart.
“I made you something.”
“We don’t yell here,” he added. “Daddy says yelling makes the house forget how to breathe…”
Her jaw tightened. She blinked, but said nothing.
We sat at the kitchen table. Anna had made tea and banana bread, and the warm scent filled the small space.
My mother barely touched her cup.
“We don’t yell here.”
“This could’ve been different. You could have been someone, something. You could have been great, Jonathan.”
“I am someone, Mom,” I said. “I just stopped performing for you, for the one person who never clapped for me.”
