Leo walked past me.
Goldi shook her head as if she couldn’t believe he was real.
“Hi,” Leo said.
That simple word destroyed her.
She started crying.
“Hi.”
Leo stood about six feet away.
Goldi didn’t reach for him.
I noticed that.
She waited.
“You’re tall,” she said.
Leo smiled nervously.
“Dad says I’m still growing.”
“Your dad was six feet tall when I met him.”
“I’m five-ten.”
“Then you’ve got two inches to go.”
Leo laughed.
It was small.
Awkward.
Perfect.
Goldi cried harder.
“I know I don’t deserve to ask you for anything.”
Leo looked at her.
“So don’t.”
She blinked.
Leo continued.
“Don’t ask me to forgive you tonight.”
Goldi nodded quickly.
“Okay.”
“Don’t ask me to call you Mom yet.”
“I won’t.”
“And don’t tell me you did everything for me.”
Her face crumpled.
“I won’t do that either.”
Leo looked down.
“Because Dad did everything for me.”
Goldi looked at me.
“I know.”
Those two words contained eighteen years.
I wanted to hate her.
I had practiced hating her for almost two decades.
But hatred is easy when the person is a ghost.
It is much harder when she’s standing thirty feet away, older and trembling, looking at your son as though she’s been holding her breath since the day he was born.
I stepped outside.
“You should’ve trusted me.”
Goldi nodded.
“I know.”
“You should’ve told me.”
“I know.”
“I would’ve fought him.”
“I know.”
“And maybe we would’ve won.”
