My chest ached.
“And she never told me,” I murmured. “Why wouldn’t she tell me?”
“Because there’s more.”
“Why wouldn’t she tell me?”
The homeless man looked up, and something in his eyes made my heart stop.
Wade leaned forward.
“What do you mean, more?”
“I think you need to hear that from your daughter.” He swallowed hard. “But what she’s doing isn’t an accident. She’s been making a choice every day, and she’s paying for it.”
“She’s been making a choice every day, and she’s paying for it.”
Wade stood and paced to the window, his jaw clenched tight.
“She’s eight years old,” he said. “Eight.”
“That’s why I came,” the man went on. “I’ve watched a lot of people walk past me and pretend I wasn’t there. Your daughter never did. Now she’s carrying something no child should carry alone.”
I sank down onto the arm of the chair, the lunchbox still cradled in my lap.
