I didn’t know that. In all those years, nobody had ever told me that.
“Your grandmother brushed her hair in front of it every morning for sixty years,” Dad said. “She brushed my hair in front of it. And yours.”
Ezoic
He laid the frame very carefully on top of the glass in the box.
“Brian knew that?” I asked quietly.
“Some of it. You told him.”
I remembered. Our first Christmas together, I’d told him the whole story. The hairbrush and the hundred strokes and the summer after Mom died. I’d cried a little. He’d held my hand and said, That’s beautiful, babe.
He’d used it.
Eight years later, he’d used it.
On the morning of our final court date, Dad arrived at my apartment before I was ready.
Ezoic
I’d been staying in a small rented apartment since I moved out of Dad’s spare room. I still had my hair in a towel and one shoe on when I heard his truck in the parking lot.
