She opened it again.
“Harold!”
“Tomorrow, Mom.”
He walked toward our room.
I followed him.
“Tomorrow, Mom.”
There was nowhere to close ourselves in, obviously.
We got ready for bed in full view of the hallway.
Harold hung his robe on a chair.
“Are you mad?”
“At you?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Less than I was at five.”
“Are you mad?”
“That’s progress.”
“But we’re not done.”
Harold sat on the edge of the bed.
“I know.”
“You told her twice. And then I was still the one having to explain why I didn’t want your mother walking in while I was changing.”
“But we’re not done.”
“I thought she’d stop.”
“Why?”
He considered that.
“I don’t know.”
That answer was at least honest.
“Your mother thinks if a boundary hurts her feelings, the boundary is rude.”
“I thought she’d stop.”
He looked toward the hall.
