Three years into his sentence, a thick letter arrived in the mail bearing the return address of the maximum-security prison. It had Gregory’s messy, hurried handwriting scrawled across the front.
I walked over to the kitchen trash can, dropped the unopened envelope straight inside, and pushed the lid closed.
That weekend, the sun was shining brightly as Toby and I walked hand-in-hand along the shoreline of the ocean. The salty breeze whipped through our hair as we watched the waves crash rhythmically against the sand. He was eight years old now, laughing freely, completely safe, and surrounded by a life built entirely on truth.
