Clay shot up from the dining chair so fast that the metal legs scraped a gray mark across the linoleum.

He took three steps to the glass back porch door and stood staring out at the overgrown lawn.

“She made a mistake, Mom, people get overwhelmed, we don’t have to destroy her life,” he said.

“Her life isn’t what I’m paid to worry about,” I said.

“You never liked her from the day I brought her home,” he said, his voice flat against the glass.

“Even before you flew off to Dublin, you watched her every time she put a plate on the counter.”