His hair was disordered, his eyes were red, and all the confidence he had worn at the wedding had vanished.
I opened the door but did not invite him inside.
“Mom,” he said.
“Daniel.”
He glanced beyond me into the house.
“Can I come in?”
I studied him before stepping aside.
He entered the living room where he had built blanket forts as a child.
The same room where he had opened Christmas gifts, prepared for exams, cried after his first breakup, and told me he had been accepted into Clemson.
Now he stood there like a stranger waiting for permission to belong.
“Coffee?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“No. Thank you.”
We sat opposite each other.
I took the armchair.
Daniel lowered himself onto the sofa, leaning forward with his hands clasped.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
Finally, he said, “I didn’t know about the chair.”
