I told him almost everything, but one thing I’d never told him was how little I remembered about Mom. It would break his heart worse than it’d already been broken, and I couldn’t do that to him, but my childhood memories were filled with his face instead of hers. My memories of Mom were more of a feeling—a time in space, etched into me in a way that no amount of time could erase. But they were just pieces. Very small ones.
