Thomas Caldwell.
The name glowed from Daniel’s phone as if it had been waiting years to be seen again.
My father had been gone for ten years.
I had mourned him in a house where no one spoke his name. I had cried quietly into pillows Jason later replaced, as though grief were a stain that could be removed with money. I had kept one photograph of my father tucked inside an old cookbook because Jason disliked “sad reminders” in the open.
And now his name was calling from the dead.
Daniel looked at me.
His hand did not move toward the answer button.
“Iris,” he said quietly, “this is your choice.”
My choice.
Those words had followed me all morning, each time heavier than before. Play the video. Continue the hearing. Open the box. Answer the call.
For years, choices had been taken from me so gradually that I had stopped noticing their absence. What to wear. Who to see. Which doctor to trust. Which memories were acceptable. Which questions made me “difficult.”
