I dial my son, who now calls himself Marcone, and, for once, he answers.

“Thanks for the flowers, Tony. They were beautiful. Adele was pleased.” The last bit is a lie; Adele never mentioned them, but it would be awful for him to think his expense went unnoticed.

“Sorry about your dad.”

“Thanks. He left me the house. The triple-decker.”

“Cool.”

“I own it. Can you believe that?”

“Will you live there?”

“I don’t know. It has tenants already.” I could never be the kind of landlord that doesn’t renew a lease. But the second-floor tenants are a young married couple; surely they’ll be moving in a year or two. I don’t ask, “Would you want me to?” I don’t want to hear the answer.

*   *   *

“Justine, I don’t know how you’re going to take this, but Tony wants to stay here.” Anthony sounds equally apologetic and pleased.

“I want to hear him tell me that himself.” It is the day he’s supposed to arrive home. He should be on a plane right now. I have cleaned the apartment like a frenzied housewife and bought every snack food the boy likes. I haven’t had but one phone call from him since I left him in Brooklyn, and that one was curt and a request for a CD he left behind.

“Mom. I want to stay here. I can finish school without having to worry about moving again.”

“I won’t move again; I promise.” I haven’t told him that I have a new job, a good one at a health clinic. We can start looking for a new place when he gets home. I want to surprise him.

“Yeah, right. Just like the other times.”

Tony’s sardonic words pierce like a harpoon into the heart of a woman just trying to do the best she can.

*   *   *

Tony never came back to live with me. The next summer, he was too busy working in Marcone’s Grill, learning the business, and then he was in college. For spring breaks and holidays, Anthony flew him back to Seattle, but the bond we’d had when Tony was little and still sleeping with his Donald Duck pillow was gone. Tony had finally found the stability he’d needed. A permanence that I had never been able to provide.

*   *   *