I expect that to be the last of it. I expect him to nod or clench his jaw or sigh, the way he would when I’d regurgitate that line when I was very clearly not good. I expect him to walk away. But he’s not that Eli right now, and god, that’s terrifying. He stands there, his palm pressed to the door. It’s the same spot he stood morning after morning, summer after summer, waiting for me. It’s so disorienting that he’s doing it again. It’s a homesickness of its own.
