When I murmured, “His mom took it… she said I should be grateful they’re letting us stay,” he didn’t argue. He didn’t sigh. He didn’t lecture.
He simply opened the car door and said,
“Get in. Tonight we’re going to fix this.”
For illustrative purposes only
And they had no idea who my father really was… until he stood in front of them and the color drained from their faces.
My ankle had swollen so badly it barely fit inside my sneaker. Every step felt like a spark of fire shooting up my leg, but I kept moving. If I stopped, I’d think. And if I thought, I’d cry.
Noah was eleven months old, warm and heavy against my hip. His soft curls brushed my cheek as he babbled quietly, unaware that his mother felt like she was slowly fading away.
The grocery bag swung from my hand, the milk knocking lightly against my knee. We were about half a mile from Daniel’s parents’ house in San Antonio, and the late afternoon heat pressed down heavily. I focused on one thing: get home before Noah started crying.
A car slowed beside me.
