Chapter 8
Elias did not call me Dad.
Not for months.
That hurt.
Good.
He called me Ronan.
Sometimes Mr. Ronan when nervous.
Celia looked apologetic the first time.
“Don’t.”
I meant it.
I had missed four birthdays.
Four winters.
First lost tooth.
First full sentence.
Nightmares.
Fevers.
Favorite cereal.
I was biologically his father.
Relationship had to catch up.
I did not get to demand vocabulary before trust.
We started small.
Breakfast.
Walks.
Building wooden trains.
He hated loud rooms.
Loved blue socks.
Could not sleep if a door was fully closed.
The trunk had added something new.
For weeks, he checked storage boxes before entering rooms.
I wanted to destroy the trunk.
Celia stopped me.
“Ask him.”
Good.
We did.
Elias looked at it.
“Take top off.”
So we removed the lid.
Not the whole trunk.
It became a toy chest.
Open.
Visible.
May you like
No latch.
Choice transformed object better than destruction would have.
