She looked nervous.
“Are you Weston’s mother?”
“Yes.”
She glanced down at the little boy beside her.
“My name is Sloane.”
“Are you Weston’s mother?”
I caught the edge of the door.
“Sloane?”
She nodded.
The little boy looked up at her.
“Mommy, is this the lady?”
“Yes, Charlie.”
I couldn’t stop staring.
“Mommy, is this the lady?”
The last time I’d seen Sloane, she’d been seven years old, clutching a book at my son’s funeral.
Now she was standing on my porch with a child of her own.
“I should’ve come here years ago,” she said.
“Oh, honey.”
“I should’ve come here years ago.”
She looked at me again.
“Your son wasn’t at that river by accident. I need to tell you the truth.”
I held on to the doorframe.
“What are you talking about?”
“I need to tell you the truth.”
Sloane looked down at her son.
Then she said something I’d never expected.
“Weston came there to meet me.”
***
I invited them inside.
She said something I’d never expected.
Charlie carried an old wooden train from my bookshelf to the rug while Sloane sat across from me.
“Did Weston know you were going to be at
the river?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Did he know something was going to happen?”
“Did Weston know you were going to be at the river?”
“No.” She shook her head quickly. “Nothing like that. We were supposed to read together.”
I stared.
“Read?”
“We were supposed to read together.”
Sloane placed the book on her lap.
Its green cover had faded, and one corner had been repaired with yellowing tape.
“I knew your son before the accident.”
One corner had been repaired with yellowing tape.
***
That summer, Weston had volunteered at a children’s reading program at the community center.
Sloane’s parents had met him at pickup and knew he sometimes read with her after the group sessions.
He’d mentioned helping some children, but I hadn’t known how often he went.
Weston had volunteered at a children’s reading program.
