I reached over and took her hand off his arm — one finger at a time. I didn’t squeeze. I didn’t pull. She just let go.
“Diane.” I held her eyes. “That night you threw the covers off the bed, you weren’t checking to see if I’d touched him. You were checking what you can’t touch anymore. I never grabbed your son with dirty hands. He walked over to me on his own.”
Her head snapped up. “Who are you calling dirty?”
“The one standing over my bed that night, calling my hands dirty? That was you,” I said. “My hands are clean. If you still want to fight about dirty hands — the whole family’s right here. Go on.”
Her lips moved a few times.
No sound came out.
“Mom,” Jake said.
Diane spun toward him. “Son—”
“The way you take care of me,” Jake said — low, but the whole yard heard him — “is dragging me out of my own bed in the middle of the night. Every kindness you’ve ever given me came with a bill. I’m your son. Not your debtor.”
