The people in my town filled that space with their own stories. They speculated, judged, and assumed the worst. I learned to ignore it. I worked long shifts, restored old furniture for extra income, and poured everything I had into raising my little boy with kindness and calm.
Ethan often asked about his dad. I always answered gently: “He’s out there somewhere. Maybe one day we’ll understand what happened.” It wasn’t a promise—I didn’t have the right to make one—but it was hope.
The Day the Cars Arrived
On a humid afternoon, while Ethan played basketball, a formation of black cars pulled up in front of our home. The sudden stillness in the neighborhood felt heavy. People stepped out onto porches. Curtains lifted. Even the wind seemed to pause.
A man in a tailored suit stepped out, leaning on a silver cane. His face was marked by exhaustion and something deeper—grief, maybe, or regret. His security team didn’t move until he waved them back.Continue reading…
