Charlie stepped out holding Julian’s phone.
He was probably in his mid-sixties.
Tall.
Thin.
Gray beard.
Jeans.
Flannel shirt.
Weathered hands.
He had the kind of eyes that wrinkled at the corners when he smiled.
“You must be Dani.”
“Daniella technically.”
He laughed.
“So he really does call you Dani.”
“He does.”
Charlie handed me the phone.
There was a tiny scratch near one corner.
Otherwise, it was fine.
Julian’s lock screen appeared.
A picture from our wedding.
The two of us laughing.
“It’s perfect.”
I looked at Charlie.
“Can I give you something? Gas money? Anything?”
He immediately shook his head.
“No need.”
He turned toward his truck.
Then curiosity got the better of me.
“Charlie?”
He turned around.
“Where exactly did you find it? Julian has been trying to figure out whether he lost it at work or the gym.”
Charlie answered without hesitation.
“Outside the family visitation center downtown. Grant Street.”
My smile vanished.
The phone suddenly felt heavier in my hand.
I knew the building.
A low brick structure on Grant Street.
Small playground outside.
A painted rainbow over the entrance.
It was a place used for supervised visits between children and parents who, for various legal or family reasons, couldn’t meet unsupervised.
Custody disputes.
Recovery programs.
Court arrangements.
Complicated families.
Children sat there waiting for parents who sometimes came.
Sometimes didn’t.
And the center was nowhere near Julian’s office.
It was nowhere near his gym either.
Grant Street was twenty minutes away in the opposite direction.
Charlie noticed my face.
“I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong?”
I stared down at Julian’s phone.
For twelve years, Julian had been the most reliable person I knew.
The man who came home at almost the same time.
Who called me at lunch.
Who went to the gym every Thursday.
Now I was standing on our porch wondering why his phone had been lying outside a family visitation center.
Charlie shifted awkwardly.
“I hope I didn’t cause trouble.”
I couldn’t answer.
Because I had been inside that building before.
When I was nineteen, I volunteered there for a college psychology course.
Four hours every Saturday.
I thought it would be simple.
Coloring with children.
Reading stories.
Playing games.
It wasn’t.
I still remembered the waiting room.
Yellow walls.
Blue carpet.
Plastic chairs.
Donated toys.
Picture books with missing pages.
And a giant window facing the parking lot.
The children watched that window constantly.
Every car that entered.
Every door that opened.
Waiting.
There was one little girl I never forgot.
