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When I returned to Thomas’s house, Hunter was asleep on the couch, still holding the little red truck. Thomas stood as I entered.
“If you don’t want me to see him again, I’ll understand,” he said.
Hunter stirred awake and reached for his grandfather’s hand.
I looked at them and realized I had a choice. My mother had decided which truths I was allowed to know, believing she was protecting me. I would not make the same mistake with my son.
“No more secret Fridays,” I told Thomas. “If you want to see Hunter, you can come through the front door.”
Thomas covered his mouth, overwhelmed with emotion. Hunter smiled.
That night, I found my son playing with the red truck on his bedroom floor. I sat beside him, and he asked whether his father used to play cars with him.
“All the time,” I told him.
