Names and some details have been changed to protect privacy.
— Ed.
I drop by on a Saturday. Your mom lets you answer my knock on the apartment door. The cap of your gastrostomy tube is outlined against your unicorn T-shirt.
“Madison, who is it?” your mom asks — pretending not to know I was coming.
“Is . . . Uncle Owen.” You hug yourself and sway back and forth.
“That’s right, it’s Uncle Owen,” I say. I take off my shoes and leave them by the door while you muster the courage to ask the big question:
