The Gravity of What Has Gone

“Let me see you,” I croaked.

“Dad, no—”

Please. Just let me have one last look at my son, and I really will be able to move on.”

A long pause. Then Jason said, “Okay.”

I turned. My heart wrenched so hard I nearly collapsed. He was so tall, so grown, so different. My son. My son. I gulped a few times and finally managed, “You have your mother’s eyes.”

He smiled, and in an instant he was my little boy again. Then his features darkened. “Turn around, Dad. I have to go.”

“I know.” I forced myself back around. “If—if you’re happy, I’m happy. I love you. Be safe.”

“I love you, too.” The floor creaked, the back door banged, and the house fell silent.

I stood alone and wept, thinking of Janey, my son’s first steps, the flat in Glasgow, the eight years that had crawled past like glaciers and disappeared like mist.

At last, I staggered into the bedroom, dried my face, and pulled my suitcase from under the bed. My son had wanted to give me a gift. And now I was going to give him one in return.


View this story's 2 comments.