Madison’s mother sent flowers.
I put them on the porch table, where they could be pretty without pretending to fix anything.
Weeks passed.
Kyle came by more often.
Sometimes he brought groceries I had not asked for.
Sometimes he sat at my kitchen table and asked about his father in a way he had not asked for years.
I told him the small things.
How Frank whistled when he sorted mail.
How he cut sandwiches diagonally because Kyle once said they tasted better that way.
How he bought bonds in years when we could have used the money ourselves and never once complained.
Those talks did not erase the baby shower.
Nothing erases a public humiliation completely.
But they changed the shape of what came after it.
One evening, Kyle asked if he could see the blanket again.
