Starting with a golf cart trip. My sons saw it from our driveway and ran across the grass, crying, “Can we go, pleeeease?” The driver—beard, camo trousers, large boots—resembled a cartoon lumberjack.
He smiled, tipped his head, and added, “Hop in, only if mom’s cool with it.”
I hesitated. He was observed throughout the area but never spoke. He lived alone in the brick home three doors down, which everyone assumed was his parents’. People whispered of a horrible military history.
I ignored my instincts and let them go. Twenty minutes later, they returned grinning.
The following day, he put toy trucks on our doorstep. Popsicles next. A hand-carved wooden birdhouse with their initials.
I suspected he was lonely.
Until my kid stated, “He cries when he drops us off. He conceals it.”
That night, I visited him. I knocked. He opened the door—
He blinked in astonishment, wiping his hands on a cloth. He stepped back, whispering, “Ma’am. Wanna come in?
I was surprised by his house. Clean, warm, quiet. Two tiny boys’ photographs were on the walls. A front tooth was gone. Other had a baseball glove larger than head.
He nodded when I indicated.
“My nephews,” he said. His voice cracked at the word.
We sat at his ancient kitchen table. Coffee wasn’t offered. Silence first, then speech like a faucet.
“They were six and eight,” he continued. I lost my sister in a car accident. My posting was abroad. Cannot return in time.”
Not knowing what to say. I listened.
“I had nothing else. Their father fled after the burial. They were fostered. For nearly a year, I contested custody. Lost. Said I was unstable. PTSD.”
He regarded the table.
