Mark’s Ram truck navigated the slushy streets of Willowbrook, the only sound the rhythmic thwack-thwack of the windshield wipers and the blast of the heater. Leo sat in the passenger seat, pressed against the door, his eyes enormous as he watched the town’s lights pass by, as if he were observing a foreign planet. Mark, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white, kept stealing glances at him.
The entire situation felt surreal. A strange, half-frozen boy, a five-year-old photograph of his dead wife, and a secret that fundamentally rewrote the history of his marriage. He needed answers, and he needed them now.
– How did you know to come here?
He asked, his voice rough.
– To her grave?
Leo was quiet for a long time, tracing a shape on the fogged-up window.
– She brought me.
Mark’s head snapped toward him.
– What? Sarah? She brought you to her…
– No.
Leo whispered.
– Before. When she was sick. We came to visit someone else. Her… her grandmother. The grave is right over there.
He gestured vaguely.
– She told me this spot… this one… was special. She said she’d be here one day. With her family.
Mark was reeling. The truck nearly swerved on a patch of ice.
– She told you that?
– She said if I ever needed her, this is where I could find her. So I came.
The implication of that—that Sarah, knowing she was dying, had made this secret pilgrimage with this child—was staggering.
– Where did you come from tonight, Leo?
– The shelter. St. Jude’s.
– And you walked? From there?
The boy just nodded. Mark’s jaw tightened. St. Jude’s was over three miles away.
– I’m taking you somewhere to rest.
Mark said, his eyes fixed on the road.
– Where?
– A motel for the night. Get you warm.
Leo’s eyes widened slightly.
– A real motel? With a TV?
Mark felt a pang of discomfort.
– It’s just a room. Nothing special.
The boy didn’t seem to hear him.
– And then what?
Mark’s gaze remained forward.
– And then, tomorrow, I am going to St. Jude’s. I’m going to find out exactly what your connection was to my wife.
Leo pressed his lips together and turned back to the window. Mark knew, with a sinking certainty, that the boy was holding back more, but he wouldn’t push. Not tonight. Tomorrow, he thought, his heart pounding with a mixture of dread and resolve. Tomorrow I get the truth.
The next morning, Mark woke with a start, a heavy weight on his chest. He was in the recliner in his living room, the gray light of dawn filtering through the massive, floor-to-ceiling windows of his loft. He’d brought Leo back here. The idea of leaving him in a sterile, impersonal motel room had suddenly felt wrong.
Leo was asleep in the guest room, a room that hadn’t been used since Sarah’s parents had visited two Christmases before her death. Mark looked at the cold mug of coffee on the end table. He hadn’t slept.
He glanced at the clock: 8:00 AM. Time to face this. He pushed himself out of the chair, his back protesting, and walked to the guest room.
The door was slightly ajar. He saw Leo sitting up on the bed, still clutching the photograph.
– Morning.
Mark said, knocking lightly on the doorframe. Leo jumped, his eyes wide.
– Hi.
He replied, rubbing his eyes.
– Did you sleep?
Mark asked, trying to sound neutral. The boy shrugged.
– The bed is… really soft.
Mark felt another twinge of unease.
– Get your coat. We’re going to the shelter. I need answers.
An hour later, they were pulling up to St. Jude’s, a squat brick building in a less affluent part of town. Mark’s mind was racing. He kept picturing Sarah walking these halls, her bright smile a beacon in this grim place. Why the secrecy? Was she afraid he’d be angry? Disappointed?
A middle-aged woman with tired, kind eyes and a worn cardigan looked up as they entered. She immediately broke into a relieved smile.
– Leo! You gave us a terrible fright, running off like that!
Mark stepped forward, his presence seeming to suck the air from the small reception area.
– I’m Mark Richardson. I found him. I need to talk to you about him… and about my late wife, Sarah Richardson.
The woman’s, Mrs. Gable’s, eyebrows shot up.
– Sarah… oh, my goodness. Yes. Please, come with me.
They were led into a cramped office that smelled of instant coffee and old files. Mrs. Gable pulled a thick folder from a cabinet and looked at Mark with a profound, sad understanding.
– Sarah was a volunteer here for years. She was… she was Leo’s angel.
– What does that mean?
Mark’s voice was flat.
– She was in the process of adopting him, Mr. Richardson.
The words hung in the air, clinical and devastating.
– The paperwork was nearly complete when she passed away.
Mark felt the blood drain from his face.
– Adopting?
His voice was a croak.
– Yes. She adored him. She… she mentioned she hadn’t found the right time to tell you. She said you were… consumed with your work. She was waiting for the perfect moment.
Consumed. The word was an indictment. He sank into the flimsy visitor’s chair, his head in his hands. Sarah had been building a new life, a new family, right under his nose. He felt a wave of nausea.
– Can I see the file?
He asked. Mrs. Gable pushed it across the desk. He opened it. Adoption forms. Letters of intent. All signed in Sarah’s elegant, familiar script.
Leo, who had been silent, stepped forward and whispered, “She said… she said you’d like me. When you found out.”
Mark looked at the child’s hopeful, terrified face, and then at the signature on the papers. Busy. Consumed. He had missed it. He had missed everything.
He stood up abruptly.
– Thank you. We’re leaving.
