“I am your mother, and he is your—whatever he is—and I want to talk to him.” “Fine,” I said, and hung up.
“We, uh, need to go into the house if that’s okay, and meet my mom.” “Cool.”
Something in his voice reminded me that his mom was dead,
and I thought about how everyone always seemed slightly uncomfortable when discussing their fathers in front of me.
They always seemed worried I’d be reminded of my fatherlessness, as if I could somehow forget.
I never realized how small my house was until I saw Davis seeing it—the linoleum in the kitchen rolling up in the corners,
the little settling cracks in the walls, all our furniture older than I was, the mismatched bookshelves.
Davis looked huge and misplaced in our house. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen a guy inside this room.
He wasn’t quite six feet tall, but somehow his presence made the ceilings seem low.
I felt embarrassed of our dusty old books and the walls decorated with family photos instead of art.
I knew I shouldn’t be ashamed—but I was anyway. “It’s nice to see you, Ms. Holmes,” Davis said, offering a handshake.
My mom hugged him. We all sat down at our kitchen table, which almost never had more than two people at it—Mom and me.
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