“That’s pretty stupid.”
I almost laughed.
“Yes.”
“Do adults always ruin things because they’re scared?”
“Frequently.”
“That sucks.”
“It does.”
He kept the letter.
Not as forgiveness.
As evidence that his father eventually understood something.
Noah is nineteen now.
He remembers almost everything about those three weeks.
The red sweatshirt.
The motels.
A campground.
Fishing with his father.
Being told not to tell people his last name.
Asking when he could call me.
Watching Evan become irritated whenever he asked.
He also remembers the night police came to the rental.
He had been playing a handheld game.
Someone knocked.
Evan looked through the window and said:
“Go to the bedroom.”
Noah knew immediately.
“Is Mom here?”
Evan did not answer.
That was when Noah understood his father had been lying.
Not about everything.
Enough.
Last year, Noah and I walked the six blocks from our old house to Diane’s.
We had moved years earlier, but I still owned the property as a rental, and the tenant was between leases.
