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I arch up on my toes, craning my head.
The screen door whines when she pushes it open. “Hello?”
If whoever’s on the other side, out of view, says anything, I don’t hear it.
But when Mom clears her throat, and steps outside, crouching, I wonder if maybe there’s no one out there at all.
Did he leave something for me?
I’ve had six birthdays since Dad left us.
Six Christmases.
Not once have I gotten a present, or even a card. Not a single phone call. And I know for a fact he knows where we are, because Mom told me a couple years ago that the divorce was finalized. He mailed papers here and everything.
But I got nothing.
My feet carry me across the foyer, and toward the screen door Mom has propped open with her shoulder.
And then I freeze too.
Big gray-blue eyes look up over Mom’s head, meeting mine. Pale blond hair, nearly white, hangs around their face, all the way down to their neck where it curls up under the black beanie they wear.
The kid’s four, maybe five.
Hard to say, when they’re drowning in a yellow raincoat. I can’t even tell if it’s a boy or girl, and that reminds me of the day I met Jeremy, when I just assumed, given what those jerks were saying, and the silky gold hair falling all around his face.
On the porch, next to the kid, there’s a big black duffle bag, and on top, a white envelope with Mom’s name written across in black, messy handwriting.
I blink a couple times, and swallow, trying to force down the thickness rising in my throat. But it’s no use.
He left her a letter. Did he leave anything for me?
Mom says, “Hi there. I’m Sherry. What’s your name?”
The kid hangs their head and says nothing. Maybe they can’t talk? They’re old enough though…
Again, I’m reminded of Jeremy. Maybe the kid is just really shy. We’re strangers, and they’re alone. I’d be scared too.
Mom grabs the envelope and opens it, unfolding a sheet of notebook paper with a bunch of messy writing on it. I try to look over her shoulder to read it, but she must sense me. She cuts me a look, and stands up, before walking off to the side, eyes focused on the letter once more.
I turn my focus back on the kid and say, “Hi. I’m Mason.”
They look up at that. “Brother.”
My eyes widen. “What?”
Mom inhales sharply.
I whip my head around, and catch her covering her mouth with a trembling hand. At first I think she’s upset—sad about whatever she’s reading.
But when she lowers her hand, and I see the sharp lines of her face, and she says shortly, “Stay here,” I realize she’s not sad.
She’s furious.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen her this mad.
She brushes past me as I step fully outside, the screen door slamming shut behind me.
