When Zachary was a little boy, he used to bounce off the last step of the school bus and directly into Heidi Griffin’s arms, eager to tell her everything about his day with the kind of innocent childhood excitement that made her heart burst with love. She would lead him into the cozy kitchen and sit him down in front of
a tall glass of milk and two warm peanut butter cookies, his favorite, and listen raptly as he chattered on and on about his latest art project, or else recited his multiplication tables, his cheeks flushed pink with pride. She knew then that those days would be short-lived, that she needed to drink in every moment with
her son before he became an awkward, surly teenager who breezed by her without a backward glance.