“Do not buy me anything expensive.”
Jalen laughed.
“You raised me.”
“So?”
“You know that instruction is useless.”
Micah carried a tiny plastic skateboard bought from a toy store.
Camille stopped near the old bench.
Jalen noticed.
“You remember?”
She stared at him.
“Obviously.”
Micah climbed onto the bench.
“What?”
Jalen sat beside him.
“Nothing.”
His son looked toward the fountain.
“Can I skate here?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Rules.”
“Rules are stupid.”
Camille smiled.
“Future lawyer.”
Jalen groaned.
They sat.
No police officer approached.
No security guard watched.
A group of teenagers occupied another bench, loud and annoying.
Security passed.
Looked.
Kept walking.
Jalen watched.
Camille noticed.
“Don't.”
“What?”
“Turn normal into proof that everything is fixed.”
He smiled.
“You trained me too well.”
“No.”
“You were born exhausting.”
Micah asked:
“What are you talking about?”
Jalen looked at his son.
He had not told him the story.
Not yet.
Maybe someday.
“Grandma used to shop too long.”
Camille stared.
“That is absolutely true.”
Micah accepted the answer.
They continued shopping.
Camille’s retirement dinner included judges, lawyers, former clients, interns, neighbors, and people who had survived depositions with her.
Jalen gave the speech.
He did not mention Brenner.
He talked about Camille showing up.
His science fair.
Dad’s chemotherapy appointments.
Debate tournaments.
College moves.
The first apartment with a ceiling leak.
Micah’s birth.
Then:
“My mother has spent a career making sure facts enter the room even when people would prefer them outside.”
Camille’s eyes filled.
Jalen continued:
“I used to think that was her superpower.”
He smiled.
“Then I learned her actual superpower is shopping for three hours and calling it ‘one more store.’”
The room laughed.
Camille threw a napkin at him.
Andre would have liked the speech.
Jalen knew without needing to say it.
Years later, Camille died at eighty-two.
Not suddenly.
Heart failure.
Enough time to say goodbye.
Too much time to anticipate it.
Jalen sat beside her bed during the final week.
She slept often.
One afternoon she woke and found him scrolling through photographs.
“What?”
he asked.
“You look guilty.”
“Phone.”
“What?”
“Give.”
Jalen handed it over.
Camille scrolled.
Micah graduating college.
Jalen and his wife, Naomi, at twenty-five years married.
Andre.
Lots of Andre.
Then the old lock-screen photograph.
The original file.
Uncracked.
Camille smiled.