Raphael
I went to my mother’s old room and sat on the bed. I appreciated the fact that Beth had gone through the trouble of disassembling the thing, carrying it down the hallway, and then putting it back together again. It was made up with clean sheets and the midnight-blue comforter I had used all through my college years.
For most of my childhood, my mother slept alone in that room. Although happily married, my father was always away, gone for weeks at a time, attending to his international business ventures. He would come home for a weekend, maybe for a week, and then he was gone again. As kids, it was just normal for us; we didn’t question the arrangement, and my mother never complained.
Sometimes, I think she actually preferred it that way.
There was no trace of my father left
