My mother was in a room on the third floor, propped up against pillows, looking smaller than I'd ever seen her. She had a bruise on her cheek and a bandage on her wrist. She smiled when I walked in, and then she cried, and then she apologized for crying.
"It's fine," I said.
I sat in the chair next to her bed. The room was quiet. Somewhere down the hall, a television was playing.
"I didn't think you'd come," she said.
"I said I would."
"I know. I just didn't believe it."
We sat in silence for a while. Then she said, "I heard about Peter. That he's not with Alicia."
"I heard the same."
"Do you know where he is?"
"No. And I don't need to."
She nodded. She looked at her bandaged wrist. "I've been thinking about your father," she said. "He would have been ashamed of me."
"Probably."
