Cassandra stood in the kitchen long after Vince had gone upstairs, the sound of his footsteps fading like an echo in her chest. She turned off the stove; the small pot of water she had put on to boil was now forgotten. Her eyes lingered on the half-sliced fruit she’d intended to add to a snack plate, but her hands were trembling too much to continue. With a heavy sigh, she pulled out a chair and sank into it.
She stared at the closed kitchen door, willing herself not to cry.
She’d seen the sadness in her son’s eyes long before he said a word. She’d heard it in his voice. Vince was hurting—more than he was letting on—and Cassandra felt helpless in the face of it. There was no guidebook for this, no neat script telling her the right thing to say to make it all okay.
She had tried. God kne
