When she got upstairs, Aidan had made a sign for her, left it on the kitchen table. He colored in the words “World’s Best,” but left “Mom” uncolored but for the outline of the letters.
He probably ran out of time before bed. She touched her throat, a sweet ache for his expression of young love. Part of the pain, though, was that tonight she herself felt especially hollow, uncolored, unfinished. It was uncanny how her youngest could see right through her.
She heated the teapot and fixed herself some chamomile.
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