I hung up and walked down the wide stone steps to my Buick.

Ten minutes later I pulled into Julian’s driveway on Elm Street.

Wet oak leaves covered the hood of my car, smelling damp and bitter in the cold.

The porch light was already on, throwing a pale yellow circle over the doormat and the dark wood of the door frame.

Julian opened the door before I reached the top step.

He was wearing a dark wool sweater and soft cotton pants, looking clean, relaxed, and completely in control of himself.

“Thanks for coming, Mom,” he said, stepping back into the entry so I could get in out of the wind.