The call came at three-fifteen on a Tuesday afternoon, the kind of call that makes your stomach drop before you even hear the words. Leo’s voice on the other end was thin and stretched, like a wire pulled too tight, and all he said was, “Dad, can you meet me at Riverside Park? Please.
I need you.”
I didn’t ask questions. I just grabbed my keys, told the foreman I was leaving early, and drove the twelve miles from the construction site to the park with my hands locked on the steering wheel and my mind racing through every possible disaster. Leo wasn’t the type to ask for help.
He’d inherited my stubborn pride along with my gray eyes and the tendency to bottle everything up until it exploded. If he was calling, something had gone very wrong. I found him on a bench near the duck pond, and the sight stopped me cold.
Three battered suitcases sat at his feet—hard-shell luggage with scraped corners and zippers that barely held, the kind you pick up at discount stores when you’re young and broke and optimistic. My six-year-old grandson Toby was pressed against Leo’s side like he was trying to disappear into his father’s ribs, clutching a grimy teddy bear with one ear worn thin from years of comfort-seeking. The bear’s name was Mr.
Buttons, and Toby had carried him through every difficult moment of his short life. Leo looked up when he heard my footsteps on the gravel path, and I saw it immediately—the red-rimmed eyes, the tight set of his jaw, the way his shoulders curved inward like he was trying to make himself smaller. He tried to stand, tried to compose himself, but his legs didn’t quite cooperate and he sank back down onto the bench with a sound that might have been a laugh or might have been a sob.
“Dad,” he said, and his voice cracked right down the middle of the word. I didn’t speak yet. I just walked over, slow and deliberate, and crouched down in front of Toby first because kids absorb everything even when they don’t have the vocabulary to express it.
His little face was pale, his eyes too wide, and he was gripping Mr. Buttons so hard his knuckles had gone white. “Hey there, buddy,” I said gently, keeping my voice steady and warm.
“How about you and your dad come stay at Grandpa’s house tonight? We’ll make hot chocolate with the good marshmallows, and you can pick whatever movie you want to watch. Even the one with the talking cars you like.”
Toby’s mouth trembled, and his eyes flickered to the suitcases and then back to me.
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