My Son Brought

My mother turned back to him.

“That is ugly. And it is mine. Not yours.”

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Caleb asked, “Did you open my gift?”

My mother nodded.

“The hand cream.”

“Did you like it?”

Her face crumpled.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I use it every night.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

A tear slipped down her cheek.

“Because saying thank you would have meant continue reading …