The warmth is back in her voice again. Maybe she’s been drinking. She’s on vacation, after all.
“Now that you mention it, I do have a few more questions.”
“I’m listening.”
I take a moment to wrangle open a wine bottle and pour myself a glass. Then I sit down at the kitchen table and fortify myself with a few sips. “Why didn’t you come to the hospital when my father was sick?”
“Oh,” she says faintly. “I see you’ve brought the big guns.”
“I’m terrible with small talk.”
“Evidently.” She inhales a quiet breath. “My first husband suffered for more than two years before the cancer finally killed him. We were constantly in and out of the hospital. Everything in our lives revolved around him being sick. I’m not complaining, you understand, just explaining that was our reality. Waiting for hi
