Leo now comes to dinner on the first Sunday of every month.
He sits at the oversized table in my little apartment, often in the same chair his grandmother once occupied, and still eats too quickly, just as he did when he was fourteen.
Last month, he brought Wren with him.
It was Valerie’s suggestion.
Wren looked around the room and asked who I was.
Leo answered without hesitation.
“This is Sarah. She came to every one of my science fairs.”
That was all.
Nine years of standing outside his bedroom door, trying to prove that I cared, were reduced to one simple sentence spoken to a four-year-old over dinner.
I stood, walked into the kitchen, and ran the water for a moment—the same way I had after that science fair years earlier.
Then I returned to the table and asked Wren whether she wanted another piece of bread.
