She had made a pot roast with all the trimmings, which was a favorite of Michael’s, and as long as there was meat on the table, Angel was happy.
“Everything good?” she asked.
Michael nodded over a huge forkful of mashed potatoes. “Yeah, Ma, thanks.”
“Bertram?”
“Real good, Mrs. Carmac,” he said, reaching for another helping of meat from the platter just in front of him, which Mrs. Carmac immediately jumped to get for him.
Michael knew his mother cooked for him because she wanted him around more, and even when he came to visit, he always left feeling as if she wanted him to stay longer. Her loneliness wore on him and what was worse was that there seemed to be no end to her emptiness.
“Let me get you more butter, Bertram,” she offered, even before Angel’s knife hit the bottom of the but
