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That is such a Linda thing to say that it almost steadies me. I sit back down because standing feels too dramatic for this house to hold.

“So what happens?” I ask.

“I don’t know all the details,” she says. “His lawyer said someone from the estate may reach out.”

“The estate.”

“I know.”

“No, I’m just enjoying how classy my life got in the last twenty minutes.”

Mom sighs.

“What? Yesterday I was trying to figure out whether I could stretch grocery money until Friday, and today there’s an estate.”

Her mouth softens. “I should have handled this differently.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m not asking you to make me feel better.”

“Great. Because I’m booked.”

I expect her to snap back. She doesn’t.

She folds her hands on the table and looks at them. “He sent a letter for me too.”

“What?”

“Henry. He left one for me.”

“Have you read it?”

“Yes.”

“What did it say?”

“That he was sorry.”

I wait.

“That’s it?”

“No. But that’s the part for you.”

I lean back and stare at the ceiling. “I’m going to lose my mind.”

“You always say that.”

“Because people keep helping.”

She almost smiles again. This time I let it sit there.

For a second, we are just us. Mom and me at her kitchen table, doing what we do: saying too little, acting like tenderness is a store-bought cake we forgot to thaw.

“Were you ever in love with him?”

“No.”