He'd been on magazine covers.
He'd testified before a state legislature.
He was, quietly and without anyone from his hometown noticing, one of the most successful people his graduating class ever produced.
He never advertised it. He changed his professional name slightly — used his middle name, kept his profile low in our town — because success had never been about them. It had been about the kids like him, still sitting alone at lunch tables right now.
So when the invitation to the reunion went out to everyone but him — a final, casual little cruelty, ten years later, from people who apparently hadn't grown an inch — Daniel didn't feel wounded the way I feared.
He felt something else.
"Mom," he said, "they don't know what I do."
"No," I said.
"The reunion is at the Ashwood Center." He smiled a strange smile. "Do you know who funds the youth programs at the Ashwood Center?"
