At the back of the box, beneath a paper-mâché volcano, was an old Polaroid. In it, I was missing a front tooth, sitting in his lap. He wore that ridiculous flannel shirt I always stole when I was sick—the same one still hanging on the back of his bedroom door.
I pulled it on and walked out to the porch.
The night air was cool. I sat on the steps, arms wrapped around my knees, the bracelet tight against my wrist. Above me, the sky stretched wide and black, dotted with stars I never remembered to name.
I pulled out my phone and Frank’s business card.
To Frank: “Thank you. For keeping the promise. I understand everything so much better now. I also understand how loved I am.”
No reply came, but I didn’t expect one. Men like Frank don’t need to respond—they just show up when it matters.
The screen dimmed, and I looked up again.
“I understand everything so much better now.”
“Hey, Dad,” I said quietly. “They tried to rewrite the story, didn’t they?”
I sat there a long time, gripping the Polaroid until my thumb warmed the corner. Then I went back inside and set Michael’s letter on the kitchen table, where it belonged.
“You didn’t just raise me,” I whispered. “You chose me. Over everything. And now I get to choose how the story ends.”
