Mom pats the sofa.
I sit down, lean against her.
“Really?” I say. “You still
love Dad?”
She nods. “Really.”
“Even though he moved out?”
“Even though.”
“But you’re mad at him.
I know you are.
I saw that silly T-shirt he gave you
all cut up and in the ragbag.”
Mom takes a deep breath.
“Well, all I can say is, a person
can be mad—and love somebody
at the same time.”
I don’t want Mom to get hurt.
I don’t want her to get her hopes up.
I remind Mom of Ruby’s “statistics”:
“People who separate almost never
get back together.”
“Thanks for the info,” Mom says,
“but there are always exceptions
to ‘almost never.’”