Whenever Ernest tried discussing the future, our son changed the subject.

Austin wanted to know what he would inherit.

He rarely wanted to know how his father was feeling.

That was the difference.

My phone rang again.

I answered.

“Mom.”

Austin sounded defeated.

“Where are you?”

Through the taxi window, I watched Miami’s lights beginning to glow against the dark morning.

“I’m going on vacation.”

“Mom, this isn’t funny.”

“I know.”

“You can’t just leave us like this.”

I almost laughed.

Leave them?

They had left me alone beside Ernest’s grave.

They had abandoned three cages in my living room.

They had handed me instructions while I was still dressed in mourning black.

Now they were angry because I had finally been the one to leave.

“Austin,” I said quietly, “you didn’t lose the house today.”

He stayed silent.

“You lost the right to assume that it was yours.”

His breathing became uneven.

“Mom, please.”

That word caught me.

Please.

I couldn’t remember the last time my son had used it with me.

But I wasn’t turning around.