One evening, Nathan found me sitting beside the rocking chair.
“Does it work, Mom?”
“Come see.”
I rocked gently back and forth.
“Grandpa said Dad once ruined a table because he cut one leg too short,” Nathan said.
I laughed.
“We ate dinner at that crooked table for months. He kept promising to fix it, then started another project.”
Nathan grinned.
“That sounds like Grandpa.”
“It sounds exactly like your dad.”
He sat across from me.
“Tell me about the table.”
I began describing our first apartment and the evening Michael tried to impress me by building something himself.
Halfway through, my voice caught.
Three years earlier, I would’ve changed the subject.
Instead, I took Nathan’s hand.
“I still miss him, honey.”
“Me too, Mom.”
I squeezed his fingers and finished the story.
