Which left him emptier, giving his inner anger more room to expand.
* * * *
Hester Byrne, who Jimmy called Grandma and whom Maggie preferred not to call at all, was busy in the kitchen when Jimmy returned from the rehab center. Slamming the door, not on purpose but not exactly indicating an accident. It just happened.
“You break it, you buy me a new one,” Hester said, turning around, a wooden spoon in her hand. Which she’d use.
“Sorry, Grandma.”
“Something bothering you? What am I saying, of course it is. Something always owns you, Jimmy.”
Hester was not the sweet, afghan-knitting kind of grandmother. She had a mouth on her, a way with words, and a knack for sharing her opinion that hit hard. At age eighty-two, she was spry, quick on her feet as much as she was with her mind. The wor
