Now his mother’s face was in the window, right behind the white lace curtains.
Joe froze, and then humbly waved at her.
Moments later, he was in his mother’s small but eager arms, his face pressed into her soft neck. She smelled like bleach, but a hint of her golden, musky perfume came through too. They entered and stood in the living room, which also served as her bedroom.
“Mon beau grand gars,” she said, looking into his face. My big beautiful boy.
Now, they all broke into French.
“Come in, boys,” she said, walking away to the kitchen. “Take your coats off and come sit down.” She’d already disappeared into the kitchen. “You must be exhausted, Joseph!” she called out, nervously.
But Joe couldn’t move just yet. He needed a few minutes to take all this in. He was home. He touched the
