Sometimes Gabriel waved as I walked home from school.
Once, he offered me a small wooden bird he’d carved himself.
I dropped it near his feet.
He quietly picked it up.
“You don’t have to like me,” he said gently. “But please be careful crossing the road. Your mother worries about you.”
I ignored him.
At the time, even his kindness felt like another attempt to win my mother’s affection.
Years passed.
Eventually, Gabriel disappeared from the neighborhood.
Mom never told me where he’d gone.
After graduating, I moved three hours away to Pine Ridge, determined to build a life that didn’t involve our painful family history.
Our relationship became distant.
At first, we spoke on birthdays.
Then holidays.
Eventually, only when one of us felt guilty enough to make the first call.
Eleven years later, I received a phone call at work.
A nurse from St. Jude Regional Hospital told me my mother had suffered a serious stroke.
