PART 4
For most of Daniel’s life, I had known when he was hiding something.
At seven, he hid a broken lamp behind the sofa.
At thirteen, he hid a report card beneath his mattress.
At seventeen, he tried hiding the fact that he had backed Arthur’s car into our mailbox.
He always became unusually helpful.
That week, he sent me three messages asking whether I needed groceries.
The third one arrived Tuesday morning.
Need anything from Costco?
I stared at it.
Then typed:
No. But I would like to know about your business loan.
The little dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Finally:
Rebecca told you.
Yes.
Can we talk tonight?
Yes.
He arrived at seven carrying nothing.
No flowers.
No groceries.
No attempt to soften the conversation.
That gave me hope.
