person who seemed able to reach you.”
She wiped her cheek.
“I asked him if he would stay close to you.”
“What did he say?”
“‘Okay.’ Just like that.”
Downstairs, Noah laughed again.
Mom looked toward the door.
“And then I did something I’m ashamed of.”
“What?”
“For six years, I worried that you were sacrificing too much for him.”
I went still.
“Every time you waited for Noah, defended him, changed plans because he wasn’t invited somewhere, I wondered whether you felt responsible for him.”
“Mom…”
“I kept measuring your friendship by what Noah might need from you.”
Her mouth trembled.
“I never measured it by what he gave you.”
Suddenly, six years of memories shifted.
Ice cream after my driving test.
The dinosaur drawing in his locker.
Lunches when I couldn’t talk.
The porch when my heart was broken.
Noah had never needed me to carry him.
We
