another memory.
A small dark-haired boy running after our car.
Crying.
Someone holding him back.
Caleb.
And suddenly I remembered the bicycle again.
His hand on the seat.
Me screaming,
“Don’t let go!”
And Caleb shouting,
“I won’t! Keep going! I’ve got you!”
I stopped halfway to my car.
William expected me to believe that boy had grown into a man who could simply abandon his daughter.
Maybe people changed.
Maybe he had.
But I was done letting other people decide what truth I was allowed to know.
I turned around.
“William.”
He looked annoyed.
“You’re becoming hysterical.”
“No.”
My voice was steady.
“I’m being very clear.”
I stepped toward the porch.
“I am not leaving until Caleb looks me in the eye and tells me himself that he doesn’t want his daughter.”
William’s hand tightened against the doorframe.
Then a voice came from somewhere deeper inside the house.
“Dad.”
