Dad crying at my high school graduation and pretending his allergies were acting up.
Mom arguing for three weeks because I wanted to attend college six hours away.
Nothing about those memories had changed.
And yet everything felt different.
“Did Vicky know?”
“No.”
“Denise?”
“Probably.”
“Howard?”
“Clearly.”
I lowered my head.
“Why didn’t Mom tell me in that recording?”
“Because maybe she didn’t think it mattered.”
I looked at him.
Mercer continued.
“You were her son.”
That simple sentence hurt worse than anything.
Because I knew it was true.
When I got home, Vicky was sitting on the sofa.
She took one look at me and knew something was wrong.
“Is Uncle Howard in jail?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
I almost smiled.
Then she patted the cushion.
“Sit.”
“Since when are you the grown-up?”
“Since you’re acting weird.”
I sat.
She leaned against me.
For a while, we watched cartoons.
Then I said, “Bug?”
