Excerpt from Palaver by Bryan Washington, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

There was barely enough clearance in the doorway for her suitcase. A curtain separated their sleeping spaces. Their plan was that the son would make camp on his sofa, while the mother borrowed his bed. She'd been worried about his snoring—comically loud, even as a child—but the son hadn't spent that first night at his place. And now, he'd left her in the kitchen while he showered, drying his hair with a hand towel when he finally finished, plodding around in slippers.

This was an incredible thing to see: life being lived by someone you'd reared.

You're dripping water all over the floor, said the mother.

Taro will lick it up, said the son, nodding to his cat.

Disgusting.

It's his hobby. You're in his space.

The kitten watched them from the sofa, cleaning his tail. The mother gave Taro a nod. The cat shut his eyes, sighing.

Listen, said the mother, are you hungry? What do you do for dinner here?

Didn't you just eat, said the son.

You went and stole me away before my first bite.

Yeah, said the son. Well. Maybe don't just leave the apartment again without me. At least until you know where you're going.

What?

I said, don't—

No, said the mother, I heard you. But surely you aren't talking to me. With that tone.

The son stopped fiddling with his hair. He crossed his arms, leaning against the counter.

Please, he said.

Please yourself, said the mother. I went out for eggs. And if you had them, or any food at all, then I wouldn't have left.

I don't cook. But there's a FamilyMart right downstairs.

And I'm supposed to know what that means?

No, said the son. And that's why you should just go back home.

The mother blinked a few times. She had a few ways to respond. But none of them, she recognized, seemed proportional to the context: her reason for flying across the world.

Also, she hadn't seen him in too long. So much time had passed. The mother wasn't sure what he'd tolerate. In the past, she'd have yelled at him. Given him a slap. Entirely too much now. Probably then, too.

The son sighed. Then he lit a cigarette, kicking open his balcony door. He smoked on the railing, leaning just over the top of it. As he bent his torso, holding himself against the bar, the mother thought about joining him.

But she didn't want to startle him. What if he fell? She wouldn't even know who to call for help.

When he turned around, they met each other's eyes. The son looked away first.

* * *

This was the problem: they hadn't spoken in many months.

* * *

Sometimes, the mother called and the son wouldn't pick up.

Or she'd think about calling, but the time difference threw her off.

* * *

The son really wasn't in the habit of keeping in touch, but he'd always answer. At least, at first.

Then, one day, he stopped.

This was three years ago. He'd been living in Japan for twelve.

* * *

The pair had acquiesced to a rhythm of silences. The mother accepted it. Sometimes, these things happen.

Until just last week, when she saw the son's name on her phone.

For her caller ID, she'd chosen a photo of him as a toddler. It wasn't a picture she'd seen, or even thought of, in years. A chill ran through her spine, and she saw him, in her mind, dead. Just a body. Just for a moment.

But she answered anyway.

Pushed the button and didn't say shit. Couldn't hear him breathing on the other line. But the call hadn't been dropped, so the mother knew he was there.

The mother could've said many things, and she cycled through all of them, but what she settled on was: I'm at work.

Oh, said the son. Didn't think about that. Sorry.

This was when she knew. The son hadn't apologized for anything in many years.

Excerpted from Palaver by Bryan Washington. Copyright © 2025 by Bryan Washington. Excerpted by permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.