Three days later, Ethan came.
Not announced. Not accompanied. Alone.
The doorman called to ask if I would allow him up.
I thought about the little boy who used to wait by the window when I came home from work.
“Yes,” I said. “Send him up.”
When the elevator doors opened, he looked smaller. Thinner. His shoulders were slumped, his eyes red and tired.
He stepped inside slowly, like someone entering a place they weren’t sure they were welcome.
“Mom,” he said.
I didn’t correct him.
“I’m sorry,” he said immediately. “I was wrong. I was stupid. I hurt you.”
I waited.
He swallowed hard. “I didn’t realize what I was doing. I thought… I thought you’d always be there.”
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