Brandon shook his head as if I were the one being unreasonable. Even now, he couldn’t understand.
“Take the letter and go,” I said. “Read it or don’t, but either way, this is the last time you’ll set foot in this house.”
He snatched the envelope and pushed past me without another word. I listened to his footsteps on the stairs, the slam of the front door, the engine of his rental car roaring to life. Only when the sound had faded completely did I allow myself to sit on the edge of the bed, surrounded by the wreckage of Brandon’s final violation.
I didn’t cry. I hadn’t cried since that moment on County Road 27 when I realized my children had become strangers. Instead, I began to put the room back in order, folding Nicholas’s flannel shirts that still smelled faintly of him, gathering scattered photographs, restoring order to the chaos my son had left behind.
