“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Your dad was working constantly, and your mom was struggling after Adam died.”
Ben paused.
“She knew Adam would’ve wanted someone looking out for his little sister.”
I stared at the photograph.
“So you did?”
“For a while.”
Whenever Ben drove through our neighborhood, he watched for me.
Sometimes I had money.
Sometimes I didn’t.
When I didn’t, he gave me a strawberry shortcake bar anyway.
“You used to sit on the curb and tell me about school,” he said. “You talked nonstop.”
Ellie giggled.
“She still does.”
“Hey.”
Ben laughed.
For the first time, some of the tension disappeared.
But one question remained.
“Why didn’t I remember you?”
His smile faded.
“Grief does strange things.”
After Adam died, there were stretches of my childhood I remembered only in pieces.
My mother rarely spoke about those years later.
By the time we moved, Ben was no longer driving the route.
