“Was he good?”
I laughed through my tears. “Terrible. He crashed everything.”
Hunter pushed the little truck toward me. “Show me.”
So I did.
For the first time in five years, I told my son stories about his father that weren’t about why he had left. We remembered the laughter, the silly games, and the little moments that had made Daniel a father who loved his child, even though he hadn’t been able to come home.
And for the first time, Hunter no longer had to wonder whether his father had wanted to stay.
