He climbed onto the bed carefully, the way he used to when he was small and believed mornings required permission. "Mom. Are you mad?"
Laura opened her eyes to sunlight through the blinds and her son's face, freckles darker from a summer she had missed. "I'm... complicated. Not mad at you."
"Rachel makes good pancakes," he offered, as if this were a diplomatic credential. "Oliver spits up a lot. Dad says that's normal. I cleaned the giraffe."
"Thank you for cleaning the giraffe."
He picked at the quilt. "Dad said Chris went to heaven. And Mara. And that Oliver needs us like I needed you when I was a baby. Is that true?"
Laura smoothed his hair. "Parts of it are true. Grown-ups are still figuring out the rest."
"Will you stay?"
The question was a blade wrapped in childhood. She kissed his forehead. "I'm not going anywhere today. Let's get breakfast."