Then what are you even here for?” my fifteen-year-old son asked me when, for the first time in his life, I refused to heat up his dinner
Everything started with the cup. Or rather, with the sticky brown ring it left on the white engineered-stone countertop. I wiped it off for the third time that morning, and it showed up again, like a stubborn birthmark. Lyosha’s brand. A stamp of his presence in my perfect, ruler-straight world. “Lyosh!”—my voice, just as I … Read more