went quiet. The barbecue invitations stopped. The phone calls became once a year, on the anniversary, and on Caleb’s birthday, and I never answered those either.
I told myself we were moving on.
What I was really doing was locking us both in a very small, very quiet house.
The morning of the assembly, Caleb came downstairs wearing a button up shirt.
A real one. Light blue, with a collar. I didn’t even know he owned it. It was a little too big in the shoulders, and the sleeves were
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