And yet here he was.
And he could hear Mom’s slippered feet approaching his door once more.
“What now?” he cried. He just wanted to be alone.
“I’m sorry, Jack,” she called from the other side of the door. “You just sounded so, I don’t know, overwrought? Scared? I just wanted to do something for you, honey. So I heated up some milk for you. And I grated some fresh nutmeg into it, like you used to like when you were little.”
She paused, and he could imagine her worried, careworn face out there. He hated that he was such a shit to her most of the time, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.
“Can I bring it in?”
His first reaction was to tell her to leave it outside the door, after he rejected telling her to drink it herself or chuck it down the drain. And then maybe his cruel, damaged heart opened up just a little, and he called, “Yeah. Gimme a sec.”