"You should've told me about Jordan, too."
"I know. I couldn't. I promised him." She looked down at her hands. "And I told myself it was about the promise. That I was respecting his — his privacy, his autonomy, all the words Dr. Ines uses. And that was part of it. That was real. But the other part was that it was easier. You were fine. You were always fine. I could put you on the shelf and know you'd still be there when I came back for you." Her voice went thin. "That's a terrible thing to say to your kid. I'm sorry. It's true, and it's terrible."
Caleb didn't say anything. He thought about Grandpa on his stool. Fine was just the noise she made so I'd leave her alone.
"Grandpa told me about the science fair," he said.
Mom's head came up fast. "He what?"
"In Jefferson City. When you were in eighth grade. He said he didn't drive you. He said he wasn't really working on a tractor."
For a moment Mom looked like someone had pulled a chair out from under her. Then she looked like something else — like a door somewhere far back in her had been opened a crack, and cold air was coming through, and something warm. She put her hand flat on the table.
"I always knew he wasn't working on the tractor," she said quietly. "I just never knew if he knew I knew." She laughed, a small wet sound. "Second place. Bean plants. Exposed to different kinds of music. Classical did the best. Country music killed one."
"He doesn't remember what it was about," Caleb said. "But he remembers you put the ribbon in a drawer."
She didn't say anything for a while. She looked at the pad, and at the pencil, and at the gray smudge on the edge of her palm.
"You asked me something," she said finally. "At the party. In this kitchen."
Caleb's face went hot. "I know. I'm sorry. That was—"
"No. Let me. I've been thinking about it every night. I didn't answer you, and I should have, and I want to do it now, if that's okay." She looked straight at him. Her eyes were very tired and very clear. "You asked what you had to do to be my favorite. And the answer is nothing. There's nothing you have to do. There's nothing you could do, either way, more or less. That's not how it works. That's not — you're not something I earn or you earn. You're my kid. You were my kid before you ever did one single thing." She stopped, and swallowed. "And that's the thing I forgot to show you. I said it, I said it all the time, LOVE YOU in capital letters on the counter. But I didn't show it. I walked past your door. Jordan was drowning, and I was swimming as hard as I could toward him, and I left you standing on the shore because you looked like you could stand."