Then her expression changed.
“That wasn’t the mistake, though.”
“What was?”
“For years afterward, I watched your friendship through the wrong lens.”
I waited.
“Whenever you changed plans because Noah wasn’t invited somewhere, I worried.”
My shoulders stiffened.
“When you defended him, I worried. When you chose to spend time with him instead of other people, I wondered whether you felt responsible for him.”
I pulled my hand away.
“He’s my best friend.”
“I know.”
“You thought I was taking care of him?”
“Yes.”
Her honesty stung.
She looked toward the floor.
“I kept noticing what I imagined Noah might need from you.”
Then she looked at me again.
“And somehow I failed to see what he was giving you.”
I said nothing.
She continued softly.
“The lunches after your dad left.”
“The ice cream after you failed your driving test.”
“The ridiculous dinosaur taped in his locker.”
“The night of your first heartbreak when he sat with you on the porch until almost midnight.”
I felt tears burning behind my eyes.
Mom whispered,
“Noah was never some responsibility you were carrying.”
She shook her head.
“You were carrying each other.”
And suddenly I understood why she had looked at him that way when he arrived.
Not with worry.
