The green sponge was nearly worn to the gray backing, but I kept scrubbing the grease spot beside the stove anyway. The hum of the old kitchen refrigerator was the only sound in the house, a low rattle that usually kept me company after the evening news went off.
Then the screen door latch clicked.
It was not a loud noise, just the sound of thin metal catching against the wooden frame. I stopped scrubbing and held my breath, the wet sponge still pressed against the yellow linoleum countertop.
The back door did not have a lock, only the simple hook I had forgotten to fasten after taking the trash to the alley. A small figure stepped into the light of the stove bulb.
The boy was wearing a faded blue rocket-ship shirt that was two sizes too small, the cotton stretched tight across his chest. He stood by the breadbox, his hands tucked deep into the pockets of his dusty jeans.
My fingers tightened around the sponge until soapy water ran down my wrist.
I knew every line of that shirt, the little yellow felt stars stitched around the collar, the red thread frayed at the hem where he had caught it on the garden gate two summers ago. But those clothes had been packed in a cardboard box in the attic since the month after the funeral.
“Mommy,” he said, his voice a soft trembling whisper. “I came home.”
The sponge fell into the sink with a wet slap.
I did not move toward him, because my knees felt like dry pine branches ready to snap under a heavy wind. My hand went to my left ring finger, my thumb automatically turning the plain gold band round and round until the skin went white.
“Euan,” I said, the word tasting like copper in my mouth.
He pulled nervously at his shirt collar, stretching the worn blue fabric. He looked smaller than he had in my dreams, his hair longer and tangled with tiny bits of dry brown leaves.
“I walked from the highway,” he said.
