But I have never quite gotten over the tenderness of that handshake, the solemnity with which my thirteen-year-old sealed a deal that was so much larger and so much sadder than the one I thought we were making.

Chapter 4 — Every Saturday

And so a routine began.

Every Saturday morning, Caleb left the house wearing his oldest jeans and his most worn-out sneakers, the ones he did not mind ruining, and every Saturday evening he came home smelling of dish soap and fryer grease and french fries, the smell working itself so deep into his clothes that it lived in our laundry all week.

His hands changed.