“I told him not to wander too far.” We had just left the library, and I was digging through my bag for the bus card when I looked up—and froze. My six-year-old was kneeling beside a man slumped gently against a building wall, offering his sandwich with both hands.
My heart skipped. I rushed toward them, already apologizing, worried my son had overstepped. But the man looked up with a tired, grateful smile.
“It’s okay,” he said kindly. “I was just thanking your boy.”
My son glanced at me and whispered, “He looks like Grandpa. Can we give him the juice too?”
The man’s expression shifted, like a long-lost memory had surfaced. Something about him felt familiar, a quiet echo from the past. I hesitated, then asked, “Do you… know a Peter Colton?”
His eyes widened. “Used to. A long time ago. Why?”
I swallowed. “He was my father.”
The man looked from me to my son and back again. “Then I guess that makes you… family.”
My father had always been a mystery—spoken of only in fragments, his memory fading with time. And now, here stood a stranger who claimed to know him? My gaze dropped to his wrist. A tattoo—one I recognized. The same one my dad had. The one Mom never talked about.
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