I remembered him refusing to enter our basement at twelve because he’d seen a spider.
I didn’t share that story.
It was mine.
Sloane came to the funeral with her parents.
I didn’t share that story.
She was a small girl with dark hair, wearing a pale blue dress.
She held a book against her chest.
Her mother apologized for bringing her.
She held a book against her chest.
“She wanted to come,” the woman whispered. “But we can leave if it’s too much.”
I shook my head.
“Please don’t.”
Sloane looked at me.
Her lips
moved, but nothing came out.
“We can leave if it’s too much.”
I knelt carefully.
“You don’t have to say anything, sweetheart.”
She gripped her book tighter.
Then she began crying.
Her father carried her outside.
I watched them go.
She began crying.
At the time, I thought the book was simply something she’d brought for comfort.
I didn’t know Weston had written inside it.
***
A few months later, Sloane’s family moved away.
I didn’t know Weston had written inside it.
Reporters recognized their daughter in stores and asked questions no seven-year-old should have had to answer.
Her parents wanted her to have an ordinary childhood, and I understood.
Eventually, we lost contact.
Her parents wanted her to have an ordinary childhood.
Weston’s room became a guest room, although I kept a box of his things in the closet.
I returned to work and learned to smile when people asked
whether I had children.
Sometimes I answered, “I have a son.”
Other times, I said, “I had a son.”
I learned to smile when people asked whether I had children.
Neither felt quite right.
Then, eighteen years after the accident, someone knocked on my door.
***
It was a Saturday afternoon.
A young woman stood on the porch with a little boy beside her.
He looked about five.
A young woman stood on the porch with a little boy beside her.
He was holding a red toy truck with one missing wheel.
The woman held a worn green book against her chest.
