I don’t know.

But I wonder about Nancy Moore’s decisions too as a mother. Was Nancy Moore initially afraid to go to the police because she would be charged with a crime or because her son would be forever scarred or because Chick had some dubious business associates who might do her harm?

Or did Nancy understand that the most dangerous rage might come from a mother who lost her child?

But now I watch Myron step on the glass. The crowd stands and roars its approval. Myron Bolitar, married man, runs down the aisle with his loving bride.

I will spare you the tears and hugs and congratulations.

I will skip instead to the opening song. It is, well, gag worthy, though typical of Myron. The DJ calls Myron and his mother, Ellen, for the mother–son dance. Ellen Bolitar is shaking from Parkinson’s, but Myron takes his mother’s hand and leads her to the dance floor.

No one moves.

The music starts. The song Ellen chose is by Bruce Springsteen. I listen as the Boss aptly croons:

“If I should fall behind,

Wait for me.”

We all watch them dance. I glance across the room and see the faces. Big Cyndi is crying hysterically. She does not hold back her plaintive wails. It is lovely. Myron’s sister has flown in from Seattle. His brother, Brad, and Brad’s wife, Kitty, are back. They stand next to Mickey and Ema. Mickey and Ema are holding hands. I try not to stare.

The DJ says, “Will everyone please join Myron and his mother, Ellen, on the dance floor?”

Myron’s dad, Al, escorts Terese to the dance floor. Young Mickey takes over for Myron and dances with his grandmother as only an awkward teenager can. Esperanza finds Myron. These two, my dearest friends, share the dance.

Others join in, filling the floor. I am content to watch.

This, my friends, is life.

Hey, I’m not above a gag-worthy sentiment now and again.

I feel her standing next to me before she speaks.

“You’re Win, right?”

I turn to Ema.

“I am.”

“My mom told me to say hello.”

I manage a nod. “Tell Angelica I say hello back.”

She looks at me a long second. Then she says, “Do you want to dance?”

She has no idea what this means to me. Or maybe she does? I thought that her mother would never tell her. Did she? Or could it be that Ema is incredibly perceptive and intuitive?

That could be in her genes.

It is hard for me to find my voice. “That would be lovely,” I manage to say.

We move to the dance floor. We face each other. She puts one hand on my shoulder and the other hand in mine. We start to dance. At some point Ema moves closer. She rests her head on my shoulder.

I barely move. I barely breathe.

I just want this moment to last.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The author (who every once in a while likes to refer to himself in the third person) would like to thank the following in no particular order: Michelle Singer, Andy Morgan, Rick Kronberg, Linda Fairstein, Ian Rankin (the beer was his selection), Bill Friedman, Rick Friedman (the two Friedmans are not related—at least, I don’t think they are), Selina Walker, Ben Sevier, Christine Ball, Jamie Knapp, Carrie Swetonic, Stephanie Kelly, Lisa Erbach Vance, Diane Discepolo, Craig Coben, and Anne Armstrong-Coben, MD.