B
utch listened to his father’s footsteps echo down the hallway, followed by the front door banging shut. He heard the rumble of a truck engine barking to life and tires chewing up chunks of snow.
He waited before stepping toward the kitchen doorway and peering inside. His mother scrubbed the window above the sink with a rag, her hands moving in rapid circles, scrubbing and scrubbing even though the window looked perfectly clean, and she rubbed so hard he thought she might break the glass.
She stopped abruptly, leaned against the counter, and lowered her head. Motionless at first, then her shoulders shook, and she made a sound completely unfamiliar to him. Her chin pressed against her chest, and she appeared broken and vulnerable. For the very first time, Butch felt sorry for his mother
