“I want to know what kind of person he thinks he is now,” Nora snapped.

Meanwhile, Mom kept cooking for seven. The first time I saw her do it after he left, I nearly broke.

She set the plates on the table automatically, then stood there staring at the extra one. I quietly got up and removed it. She turned too quickly.

“I know. I know.”

“It’s okay,” I said.

“I’m fine,” she always said, but she wasn’t fine at all.

One night, I came downstairs and found her holding an old photo from when I was little.

“Do I really look that different?” she whispered. “Is that all I am now? Something that got old?”

I felt a chill. “Mom.”

She looked at me, eyes red but dry. “Be honest, did I change that much?”

“No. He did.”

She looked back at the picture. “I gave him everything.”

There was no arguing with that.