He wrote back in under a minute.
Thank you. I’ll be there. Thank you.
And then, a second later:
Can my mom come?
I stared at that one for a long time.
Not yet, I wrote.
Okay, he wrote. I understand.
He came on Saturday at exactly two o’clock. I watched from the front window as he pulled up. He sat in the car for six whole minutes before he got out. I counted.
He’d shaved. He was wearing a clean blue shirt. He’d lost weight. I could see it in his face, in the way his collar sat loose around his neck. He was holding a small paper bag.
My dad opened the door. The two of them looked at each other on the step for a long moment.
“Mr. Sanders,” Ben said quietly. “Thank you for letting me in.”
“I didn’t let you in,” my dad said. “She did. Don’t make me regret it.”
