Not Sarah’s decorating project.
Mine.
“Yes.”
Then the doorbell rang.
When I opened the door, Greg was standing outside.
He looked thinner.
Older.
The expensive watch was gone.
So was the polished confidence.
He was simply my son, holding an envelope.
“I won’t come in,” he said quickly.
I waited.
“I made the first repayment.”
He handed me the receipt.
Compared with what he owed, it wasn’t much.
But it was something.
“I’m working two jobs.”
I nodded.
He looked down.
“I read Dad’s letter.”
Margaret had given him a copy.
“I hated him when I first read it.”
He swallowed.
“Then I realized he gave me seven years to become someone better.”
His eyes finally met mine.
“And I didn’t.”
My old instinct surfaced immediately.
Comfort him.
Promise everything would be all right.
Fix the pain.
Then I remembered what decades of fixing had produced.
