I could picture my kitchen eighty miles away.
The pantry door Robert had marked in pencil every year while Melissa was growing up.
Melissa at six.
Melissa at seven.
Melissa at eight.
Robert always wrote the date beside each line.
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Once, when she stood on her toes, he’d written:
MELISSA – 8 – HEELS DOWN
Robert always wrote the date beside each line.
Years later, I’d started measuring Larry on the same door.
Robert never got to meet him.
Still, somehow, their pencil marks shared the same wood.
***
The next morning, I called Melissa.
“Let me talk to Larry.”
“He’s at school.”
Robert never got to meet him.
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“Have him call after.”
“He will.”
He didn’t.
That evening I tried again.
“He’s adjusting, Mom.”
“Adjusting to what?”
Silence.
“Melissa?”
“Everything. Tom and I are handling it.”
“He’s adjusting, Mom.”
“Put him on.”
“He’s doing homework.”
