Before I could stop myself, I lifted it to my face and breathed in.
“Mommy, are you crying again?”
Leo stood in the doorway wearing mismatched socks, one blue and one striped, holding a juice box like a prize.
“No, baby. Just smelling Grandma.”
“Grandma smells like flowers.”
“She does.”
He padded into the room and climbed onto the bed. That was when I noticed it again—a smear of silver paint along the side of his thumb, dried and peeling, with another streak crusted near his elbow that I was certain had not been there when I bathed him the night before.
“Leo, what is this?”
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