rejection, awkwardness, maybe a short conversation before driving away again.
But Leo asked if we could have dinner.
My mother nearly dropped the pot she was holding.
So we sat at the kitchen table where I had once done homework and where, ten years ago, I had begged them to hear me. My father ordered pizza because my mother was too nervous to cook. Leo told them about school, about his science fair project, about how he wanted to build robots that helped people after storms.
My father listened as if every word mattered.
My mother asked careful questions.
Leo answered with the cautious openness of a child who wanted to belong but was not sure whether belonging was safe.
At one point, he looked at the empty chair beside me and asked, “Did my dad sit here?”
My mother smiled sadly. “Many times. Noah was always here after school.
