You say, D’you remember . . . ? And you talk about the time you came here after Dora died, after your father forced you to punch the good out of your life. How you climbed the stairs to this room with bruised knuckles and swollen eyes, how I held the wrap of ice against your hand and told you that life would get better. And, I realize, the story’s not about Dora, or your father, or grief. But about us. D’you remember? you say at the end.
