They had kept him in their hearts all these years.
Days passed. David stayed close to me, sleeping in my room, following me from place to place. His father, Michael, tried to talk to him, but David often hid behind me.
One afternoon, after watching Michael walk away discouraged, I knelt beside David.
“That man is your daddy,” I said gently. “He loves you.”
David’s mouth trembled. “I don’t know him.”
“I know,” I whispered. “But give him a chance.”
The next morning, while we painted, Michael entered the room.
David paused.
Then, slowly, he walked toward him.
“Good morning, Daddy.”
Michael froze like time stopped. Tears filled his eyes instantly. He knelt and held out his arms carefully.
David stepped into them.
I turned my face away, crying quietly. It felt like watching something broken begin to heal.
Week by week, their bond grew. Michael learned David’s favorite foods. His bedtime stories. The cartoons that made him laugh. David began to run to greet him, to trust his arms.
And somewhere in that healing, my own heart started shifting too.
One evening, Michael asked me to walk with him in the garden.
The lights were dim. Crickets hummed like soft music.
“What do you need for yourself?” he asked.
I didn’t know how to answer at first. No one had asked me that in a long time.
“I just want my mother to be settled,” I said finally. “If she’s okay, then I’m okay.”
Michael nodded, then hesitated. “I heard something today. About you.”
