He would sit at the edge of his chair, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to take up space. His massive hands—those same hands that rebuilt engines and carried grief for years—rested gently on his knees like he was afraid of breaking something.
Lisa, of course, erased that distance in seconds.
“Curtis, look what I made!”
“Curtis, can you come see my bike?”
“Curtis, did you know I can almost do a cartwheel?”
She didn’t treat him like a guest.
She treated him like he had always been there.
And slowly, something inside him began to shift.
One evening, about two months after that birthday party, Curtis stayed a little later than usual.
Sarah had gone to tuck Lisa into bed. I was rinsing dishes when I noticed Curtis standing by the back door, staring out into the dark yard.
