“He was our kid! A beautiful boy.” “Yes, he was beautiful.” Joseph sobbed hard into the phone, and I twirled the phone’s cord. “You have no heart,” he said. A fern near the French doors to the garden was dying. Brown and thin, its leaves drooped. It was odd to see a plant die in my mother’s house. As a kid, I believed our house was enchanted, that nothing could die here.
