Muffled by the door, a voice called out, “Come on in.” He turned the knob and stepped inside, bracing in reflex. Waiting…always expecting his mother’s four-month sobriety to have come to an end. But the scent of coffee, not liquor, greeted him on this Sunday morning after his return from Houston. Coffee…and the sight of his mother sitting on the living room floor surrounded by boxes, holding a tie in her hands, a wistful smile on her face. Monique Marlowe looked up. “Do you remember this? Your father called it his lucky tie. Wore it whenever he had to deal with IRS or a difficult client.” She held it out to him. Dev stepped over boxes and squatted down beside her, worried at the moisture glistening on her lashes. “You could leave this stuff to us, Mom. We’ll go through it.” Her once-black hair had gone snow-white suddenly, as if her battle with the bottle had drained everything from her. “No, Devlin. These are my memories. It’s taken me almost twenty years to face them.
