Then another image surfaced. A little boy running barefoot after us. Mismatched eyes. Caleb. He was crying, too.
And suddenly I remembered something else: his hand gripping the back of my red bicycle while I screamed at him not to let go. “I won’t. Keep going.”
“You are being hysterical.”
I made it halfway to the car before I stopped.
Nora shifted against my chest.
William wanted me to believe that boy had grown into a man who could abandon his own daughter without looking back. Maybe he had.
But I wasn’t going to take William’s word for it.
I turned back. “William.”
“I am not leaving until Caleb himself stands in front of me and tells me he does not want his daughter.”
“You found me on purpose.”
“You are being hysterical.”
“I am being clear.”
Behind him, a voice from somewhere deeper in the house said, “Dad, move.”
Footsteps came down the hallway.
William’s hand tightened on the frame, then fell.
The door opened wider.
“You knew exactly who I was.”
And Caleb stepped out onto the porch, looking exhausted, like he hadn’t slept in days.
For months, I’d imagined what I would say if I ever saw him again. None of it survived the sight of him standing in his father’s doorway.
I faced Caleb on the gravel drive, Nora warm against my chest. “How long did you know?”
He didn’t pretend to understand. “From the bookstore.”
“So you found me on purpose.”
I didn’t want Nora.
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