Morgan was eleven, and for six years it had been just the two of us.
We lived in a two-bedroom apartment on the second floor of an old brick building in Tacoma, Washington, with a view of a parking lot, a laundromat, and on clear days, if you leaned out the kitchen window and squinted, a tiny white corner of Mount Rainier. The radiator clanked in winter. The kitchen faucet dripped no matter what I did to it. Morgan had decorated his bedroom door with stickers of every NBA team except the Lakers, because he said a man has to have principles.
He was the sort of kid who hugged me every morning before school, quick and hard, around the waist, and then glanced over his shoulder to make sure none of his friends had seen. If anyone was within fifty yards of the car, the hug became a fist bump. If the coast was clear, I got the whole thing.
Dinner was our time together. That was the one rule I never bent, no matter how late my shift ran or how much homework he had. We sat at the little round table by the kitchen window, phones in a basket on the counter, and we each shared the best and worst parts of our day. One highlight. One lowlight. That was the rule.
Morgan usually bent it and told two highlights.
“That’s against the rules,” I’d say.
“You’re the mom,” he’d say, pointing his fork at me. “Change the rules.”
I’d smile and shake my head. “Nice try.”
He never seemed to have much trouble finding highlights. A good grade on a spelling test. A three-pointer at recess. A dog he’d seen on the walk home that looked exactly like a dust mop. He’d tell them all with his whole body, waving his hands, knocking over his milk at least once a week.
The lowlights were harder for him. He’d shrug and push his peas around his plate. “Nothing, really,” he’d say. Or he’d pick something small and safe. We had a sub in math. The vending machine ate my quarter.
I knew why. I’d known since the day I met him. Morgan had learned very young that when you don’t say the bad things out loud, nobody can take anything away from you because of them.
