In the hallway, Evelyn lingered at a photo of small Aaron with squared shoulders and a careful smile. “He learned to hold himself well,” his mother said. The phrase rang in Evelyn’s chest differently: He learned to hold himself in. It was a whole childhood reined in.
Aaron fetched coats without being asked, folded along seams as if fabric had standards. His mother adjusted a sleeve by a whisper and kissed his cheek. It looked like love, and in many ways it may have been love. But it also looked like a lesson that never seemed to end.