"If you knew, you would've come home."
"Yes."
"Then maybe somebody else wouldn't."
Ethan stared.
Noah shrugged.
"That's what you told me about teams."
Ethan smiled sadly.
His son was becoming smart enough to make pain complicated.
"Maybe."
Noah looked at him.
"But I'm glad you came back."
Ethan put an arm around him.
"So am I."
Margaret died when Noah was nineteen.
Cancer.
Slow enough for goodbyes.
She had changed dramatically by then.
Not into a perfect person.
She still criticized restaurant service.
Still hated clutter.
Still believed nobody loaded a dishwasher correctly.
But she learned to apologize without adding "but."
That was perhaps the biggest change.
Near the end, Noah visited her in hospice.
Ethan waited outside the room.
He believed some relationships deserved privacy.
After forty minutes, Noah emerged crying.
Ethan stood.
Noah hugged him.
"What did she say?"
Noah wiped his face.
"She apologized again."
Ethan nodded.
"For everything?"
"Yeah."
"What did you say?"
Noah stared toward the room.
"I told her I forgave her a long time ago."
Ethan felt something tighten.
"Did you?"
Noah nodded.
"Mostly."
That was honest.
"Then she asked if I remembered the juice."
Ethan closed his eyes.
Of course.
Noah smiled through tears.
"I said yes."
"And?"
"She said she remembers too."
Ethan looked toward the closed door.
Noah continued.
"She said that was the day she almost lost us."
Ethan nodded.
"She's right."
Noah looked at him.
"Would you really have never let me see her again?"
Ethan thought back.
Anger.
Hotel.
Fear.
"I didn't know."
"Good."
"Why?"
"Because I would've missed her."
That surprised him.
Noah looked toward the room.
"I was scared of her."
Then he added:
"But I loved her too."
Ethan understood.
People wanted childhood stories organized neatly.
Good parent.
Bad parent.
Victim.
Villain.
Life rarely cooperated.
Margaret had harmed.
Margaret had changed.
Noah had feared.
Noah had loved.
All were true.
After Margaret died, Ethan cleaned out the old house.
The kitchen looked smaller.
The table was the same.
Tile had been replaced.
But Ethan knew exactly where Noah had sat.
He stood there for a long time.
Noah entered behind him.
"You okay?"
Ethan looked toward the floor.
"Yeah."
Noah followed his gaze.
He understood.
"The floor."
"Yeah."
Noah walked over.
Then sat down in almost the same spot.
Ethan frowned.
"What are you doing?"
Noah looked up.
"Sit."
"I'm fifty-four."
"So?"
"My knees."
"Sit."
Ethan laughed.
Then lowered himself carefully.
They sat on the kitchen floor.
No plate.