Son of 10 years. I just came home. It is wet, in the snow. I split up for lunch. I hang out his pants and jacket to dry out. From the pocket of the jacket pulls a nailflower, folded three times, washed and crushed. I ask what it is, from where? And he says, “Oh yes, Mom, it’s for you. Happy Mother’s Day!

All in Father. The Romantic.