Scott was a magnificent specimen of manhood. Ripped, as the young say. Nothing like his skinny and dissolute father, wherever he might be. Oh, he'd reappeared once, years back, to see if he could tap the wealth of his famous son. But Scott would have none of it. I'd never been so proud. Until now.
'Here's some sweet tea, you want anything else, just call.'
'Some more biscuits?'
'Mom, no more biscuits, or cake, I'm fine, ok?'
The irritation in his voice hurt, but it was the defeat in his face that tore my heart out.
'Sorry, mom. For everything.'
I sat beside him on the bed and took his hand. I could barely feel him squeeze back in return. Fingers boney, skin as slack as my own. There wasn't anything more to say. Perhaps if I'd known, I would have judged, disapproved. But of course, I should have known. Should have guessed. Too busy working on my manuscripts to notice or care. I was as bad as his no-good Dad.
Then he smiled. And I recognized that smile, it shone down from every movie poster, every photo. He, in a very real sense, was still with me.
'Hey mom, read me some of your latest writings…'
We both understood.
We began the final chapter together.