She just throws her arms around my shoulders and hugs me tight. And I hold on to her just as hard. We both clutch each other and sob into each other’s shoulders. And there are so many things we need to talk about that I can’t sort them out. I just say the first thing that pops into my mind. “Why were you walking out in the middle of the Lord’s Prayer?” I ask. “You would have killed me if I’d done that when I was a little kid.” Mom is still holding on to me, but she pulls back enough that she’s staring me straight in the eye. Is there laughter mixed in with her sobs? A glint of humor in her eyes, along with the tears? No, I decide. It’s all tears. “I haven’t been able to get through the whole Lord’s Prayer since your father was arrested,” she says. I stare back at her. Even with all her fear, I’d thought my mom was so smug and holy and self-righteous. But she can’t even pray right anymore? She’s that much like me? “But . . . you go to church,” I say numbly.
