There were countless nights when I wondered whether I was doing enough or whether I was getting anything right. Now, when I look back, I can connect everything to one decision I made on an ordinary evening in October.
The porch light flickered that October night, spreading a narrow yellow glow across the wooden boards. I returned from a double shift smelling of sawdust and motor oil, my front door keys already in my hand, and nearly stumbled over them.
Three car seats, a single diaper bag, and a note scribbled on a gas receipt.
I grabbed the receipt first because my mind refused to focus on what was inside the car seats. My brother Daniel’s handwriting was there, slanting sharply to the right, exactly as it always had.
I came home from a double shift.
“I’m sorry, Noah. I can’t do this.”
That was everything. No forwarding address. No phone number.
