At a crowded birthday reception, the lid of a large traveling trunk suddenly moved from inside.
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Chapter 13 / 17
Chapter 13
One night Elias asked:
“Did I die?”
I stopped.
He was six.
Old enough to remember words.
Young enough to make them literal.
“Why do you ask?”
“Miss Lenette said you thought I did.”
Celia and I looked at each other.
We had expected this eventually.
I sat beside him.
“I was told you died.”
“But I didn’t.”
“No.”
“Why they say?”
Hard.
“Because adults made a very bad choice and tried to keep us apart.”
“Why?”
Celia answered gently:
“They thought they knew what your life should be.”
Elias frowned.
“Mine?”
“Yes.”
“That’s weird.”
Correct.
Then:
“Did you cry?”
I swallowed.
“Yes.”
He looked strangely pleased.
“You missed me.”
Every instinct wanted to say every day.
I did.
But that felt too large for him.
So I said:
“Yes.”
He leaned against my arm.
May you like
Not Dad yet.
Still enough.
