“I’ve told you that one, Michael.”
I told him again anyway.
I described how Clara had swerved unsteadily down the driveway.
How I cried because I was certain she would fall.
How our father laughed and declared that twins were the strangest creatures God had ever created.
Michael absorbed every word like a starving man being fed.
My daughter called that evening, as she did every Sunday after he left.
“He’s grieving, Rachel.”
“He’s leaning. There’s a difference.”
I gave her no answer.
Instead, I watched the porch light cast long shadows over the lawn and pretended I did not understand what she meant.
—
Then, on a Sunday in October, Michael arrived without coffee.
His eyes were swollen and red, and he remained standing.
“Marry me, Evelyn.”
I put down the teapot before it slipped from my hands.
“Michael. I am not her.”
“I know that,” he said. “But when I’m near you, I remember how to breathe. That has to count for something.”
