I’m pretty sure I broke at least three traffic rules on my way to Luke’s house. My knuckles are white against the steering wheel, and my brain is a jumble of half-formed phrases. Now that I’m pulling into his driveway, I’m not so sure why I hurried. The weight of what he told me—his son, the anniversary, the crowd in his home—is pressing down hard on my chest.
I sit in the car for a moment, staring at the mansion.
What do you even say to a man who’s grieving his child? ‘Hey, sorry about your son—pass the salt?’ Condolences have never been my strong suit. But I’m already here, so I grab my purse and head to the door.
The second I open it, I’m hit with a cacophony of noise. Laughter, chatter, a screaming baby, and telenovela blaring from the TV.
I step inside and take a moment to abso
