“Is he alive?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know?”
“Not everything.”
Then I told him.
Not every adult detail.
Not my anger.
Not the things Nathan’s parents had said.
Just the truth Lucas was old enough to carry.
“Your dad was very young when you were born.”
“So was Mom.”
I smiled sadly.
“Yes.”
“He got scared?”
“Yes.”
“And left?”
“Yes.”
Lucas was quiet.
Then came the question I’d dreaded.
“Didn’t he want me?”
I moved closer.
“No.”
Lucas looked at me.
“No?”
“He was afraid of being your father. That’s different from there being anything wrong with you.”
“But he still left.”
“Yes.”
I wasn’t going to soften that.
“He made a bad decision. Then he kept making it because he became more ashamed as time passed.”
Lucas looked at the photograph.
“Does he want to see me?”
“He said the decision belongs to you.”
“Do I have to?”
“No.”
“Will you be mad if I don’t?”
“Never.”
“Will Mom?”
My throat tightened.
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because she left me a letter too.”
I handed him Nathan’s letter.
Lucas read slowly.
Twice.
Then he folded it.
“I don’t want to meet him.”
“Okay.”
Three days later, he changed his mind.
“I want to see what he looks like.”
I showed him a current photograph.
“He looks old.”
I laughed.
“He’s thirty.”
“That’s old.”
A week later:
“Does he still like baseball?”
“I don’t know.”
Another week:
“Could I meet him somewhere that’s not here?”
“Yes.”
“Not a restaurant.”
“Okay.”
“Somewhere I can leave if it’s weird.”
