The man who kept spare gloves in his car.
The man who made five children from different beginnings believe they had always belonged together.
Susan eventually whispered, “Do you think he knew I still loved him?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Because he knew you.”
“Do you think he’d forgive me?”
I looked toward the porch light.
“He forgave you before you even walked out the door.”
Michael entered with mugs of tea.
“Of course he did. Thomas would forgive someone for stealing his car if they brought it back with a sincere apology and a full tank.”
Susan laughed.
It was the first real laugh I’d heard from her all day.
One Last Light
Three days later, we returned to Thomas’s grave.
This time, there was no rain.
Susan knelt first and rested her hand against his name.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry, Dad.”
I had brought a small battery-powered lantern.
