still pounded and his breath was still quick, but they were now increasingly driven by a different emotion, one which leapfrogged the obvious questions to ones much more personal. “That picture. You wanted me to know what you looked like? You know a better way to do that? Don’t run the hell off!” He was out of breath again, but standing on his own. He advanced, sticking his finger in her face, and she batted it away. “Do not presume to lecture me,” she replied. “I had reasons, reasons which you cannot yet understand. In time, you will come to see–” “See? Understand?” Dylan said. “All I understand is that you vanished when I was barely out of the maternity ward. Do you have any idea what that did to Dad? He never got over you! And now, what? You want to just show up and pick back up where you left off? Well, screw you!” Dylan reached back and threw the front door open. “Get out! We don’t need you, Cynthia. Just . . . get out.” Dylan felt as though he had run out of steam with that last demand, and stood holding the door, shaking. His mother studied him for a moment, and rather than either replying or obeying, looked at the door and uttered a single word.
“Close.”
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