She closes the door quietly behind her.
The noise of the party becomes a muffled buzz.
Up close, it’s even worse. She looks just like the woman in my memory. There’s a small scar near her eyebrow I don’t remember, but trauma is not exactly a reliable camera.
“David said you weren’t feeling well,” she says.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m May,” I say. “David’s mom.”
She gives me a nervous smile. “I know,” she says.
“He talks about you a lot.”
I don’t sit. I don’t go closer.
“I’m going to ask you something,” I say. “It’s going to sound insane.
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