Leave my shop, my routine, my life?
David clutched my hand like a lifeline.
I looked at my mother, who had come behind me quietly.
She squeezed my fingers and whispered, “You are not alone.”
That night, after many tears and prayers, I called David’s father.
“We will come,” I said softly. “Just for a while, until David feels safe.”
There was silence, then a broken exhale.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you so much.”
The next morning the cars returned, but this time it felt different. Not like a storm. More like a door opening.
David sat between my mother and me, holding our hands tightly as we drove.
When we arrived, the house was big. The compound was clean, guarded, quiet. It looked like a world David had never imagined belonged to him.
Fear washed over his face anyway.
“Please don’t leave me,” he whispered.
“I’m right here,” I told him.
A woman ran out of the house and froze when she saw David. She looked older, her hair touched with gray. Her hand flew to her mouth.
“Oh God,” she cried, tears spilling. “David.”
She knelt and held his hands carefully like he was fragile glass. “You’re alive. You’re alive.”
David stepped back, unsure, hiding behind me.
His father touched the woman’s shoulder gently. “He doesn’t remember,” he said. “Give him time.”
She nodded, wiping her tears, then looked at me. Her eyes studied my tired face, my protective grip on David’s hand.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “God bless you.”
Inside, the house was filled with family pictures. His father. His mother. One photo of David as a newborn.
I felt a tightness in my chest.
