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My only son, Jeffrey, showed up at the wake with his wife, Melanie, and he hugged me too tight, for too long. At the time, I thought it was comfort. Today, I know it was calculation.
They lived in a rented apartment in a neighborhood far from me, and they would come to visit maybe once a month. But after the burial, they started showing up every week. Jeffrey insisted that I could not stay alone in the big house in Brooklyn. He said he was worried about my mental health, about my safety. Melanie agreed with everything, always with that sweet smile that I had not yet learned to read as fake.
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