I still had our wedding photo on the mantel, the one where Frankie was walking down the aisle with a tiny satin pillow tied to his collar, our rings glinting in the afternoon light. My husband, Kenny, who loved him like family, cried when he saw him coming. I’d cried harder.
Kenny came in from the garage with grease on his hands and kissed the top of my head.
« Mom called again, » he said quietly so the kids wouldn’t hear.
I’d cried harder.
« What did she want this time? »
« Same thing. To ‘pop by and see the grandbabies.' »
I let out a slow breath.
My mother-in-law (MIL), Diane, had a way of turning a visit into an inspection, and Frankie was always her first target.
« He smells. He sheds. I don’t want that animal near my grandchildren, » she’d told me once, something she constantly repeated right in front of Frankie, as if he couldn’t hear her.
« What did she want this time? »
