Michael
I looked at Betty and the look on her face when she gazed at dozens of candle lining her apartment. She seemed perplexed and worked up, a mix of angry that I’d vanished and curious about what I’d been up to.
"Did you visit your mother?” she repeated. “Michael, it has been years you haven’t called her.”
"Twelve years," I confirmed. “Not since she left when I was 10. My father was not a man to mince words, and he made it clear I would have to pick between them. He was always there, feeding me, making his empire. She was in Paris, chasing her art career. I picked him because, well, it kind of made sense. "But I’ve always been curious about her, what I missed.”
"Why now? Why go see her now?"
“Because I was trying to figure out something. I came to my wife's bedside and held her ha
