Roman
Coming by after practice. Need anything?
He’s coming by. Again. Like this is just part of his routine now—practice, then hospice, checking on Mom, checking on me.
When did this become normal?
We’re good. You don’t have to come.
Roman
I want to.
Three words that shouldn’t make my eyes sting but do.
I set the phone down and go back to watching Mom watch the roses.
She’s right about the deadheading. The gardener really doesn’t know what he’s doing.
But at least she’s still here enough to care.
There’sa knock about an hour later.
Roman appears with a coffee carrier and a bakery bag.
“Hey,” he says. “Bad time?”
“No, come in.” Mom gestures at him. “You brought coffee.”
“Yeah.” He sets the carrier on the table, pulls out a cup. “Vanilla latte, extra shot, light foam. Right?”
Mom takes it, sips, nods. “You remembered.”
“You said it yesterday.”
I’m still processing the fact that he came here yesterday without mentioning it to me, despite the uncertain status of whatever we are to each other.
“How was practice?” Mom asks.
Roman sits in the other chair. “Long. Luca’s already acting like it’s playoffs.”
“That boy.” Mom shakes her head. “Someone needs to tell him to relax.”
“Pretty sure that would just make him worse.”
They talk about the team, about the season, about nothing important. Mom asks about his shoulder. He asks about the garden.
Then Mom says, “He would be proud. How you take care of people.”
Roman goes completely still. “Who would be proud?”
“Your brother.” Mom’s voice is gentle. “Marnie told me you lost him young. That’s a special kind of grief.”
My head snaps up. I never told her that. Did I?
Roman nods slowly. “Matthew. Yeah. Five years ago.”
“Too young,” Mom says. “Both of you too young for that kind of loss.”
