Edith had a son.

Colton.

He lived two hours away, in Chicago, and he called when he remembered to, and he appeared every few months carrying a box of store-bought cookies as though that settled something.

One afternoon, walking past her open door, I overheard one of those calls, and I have never forgotten it.

“Mom,” Colton was saying, loud enough that I could hear the tinny shape of it from the hall, “the staff told me you made another scene about taking a shower.” Edith gripped the receiver.

“It wasn’t a scene, Colton.” “Well, just cooperate, would you?