I picked up a fourth-grade class picture and ran my thumb across his small, serious face. He stood at the end of the row, half a step apart from the other children, the way he always did.
« Mom, did you eat anything today? »
Jeremiah’s voice drifted in from the hallway, soft and careful, the way he spoke about everything.
« I had toast, » I lied.
He walked into the kitchen in his socks — tall now, his shoulders narrow under a gray hoodie. He paused behind my chair and looked down at the photos without touching them.
« You’re doing this again, » he said.
« I’m just remembering. »
« You remember a lot. »
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