He smiles wistfully, observing everyone around the table. “It never mattered whose eyes were on your mom. Because her eyes were always on me.” He pats my shoulder and then leans back into his chair, leaving me staring down at the old oak table beneath my elbows. The lines in the wood a testament to all the meals I’ve had in this exact spot over the course of my life. While lively conversation rolls on around me, I think about my mom. I think about Summer. And when I glance over at her, her eyes are on me.
