Then it irritated her.
Then, bizarrely, she started calling him because she actually wanted to talk instead of because she knew he expected it.
Six months later, Diane booked a trip to New Orleans with two women she’d known since college.
Ethan drove her to the airport.
I came along.
As he lifted her suitcase from the trunk, he said:
“Do you want me to send you that list of restaurants?”
“No.”
“Emergency numbers?”
“No.”
“Hotel confirmation?”
“It’s already on my phone.”
“Copies of your ID?”
Diane slowly turned toward him.
Ethan stopped.
“Right.”
He handed her the suitcase.
Then he hesitated.
“What time should I pick you up next Thursday?”
Diane smiled.
“I’ll text you.”
Ethan nodded.
No interrogation.
No tracking.
No warning.
Just:
“Have fun, Mom.”
She kissed his cheek.
“I intend to.”
Then she rolled her suitcase toward the terminal by herself.
Halfway through the doors, Diane turned around.
