He knew who collected him.
Who made dinner.
Who he could call.
He asked whether I was leaving because Helena complained.
“No.”
“Because I told about the ticket?”
“No.”
“Because you want to see your daughter?”
“Yes.”
He thought.
Then smiled a little.
“Like Dad should come to mine.”
“Yes.”
At the door, he hugged me.
Then ran upstairs for a drawing he wanted me to take.
When I returned, he met me in the kitchen.
He had grown half an inch, lost a pencil, and acquired an intense dislike of mushrooms.
Darian looked tired.
The house looked lived in.
Nothing had collapsed because I was unavailable.
I was glad.
A child can love a caregiver without that caregiver becoming the only reliable person in his world.
Max told me about an afternoon at the park.
Then he asked whether I wanted to see his latest bridge.
It stood.
Mostly.
He pointed out the part his father made.
“That one needs work.”
Darian agreed from the doorway.
They had learned to survive correction together.
Helena sent a letter in August.
It apologized for withholding the invitation and saying things about Darian’s reaction that were untrue.
It acknowledged that Max wanted his father there.
It said telling the truth at dinner was not wrong.
There was no request to meet.
Darian asked whether Max wanted it.
The boy chose to read it with him.
Afterward, he asked:
“Does she think you should have come now?”
Darian answered carefully.
“She says she understands what she did.”
“That’s different.”
“Yes.”
Max folded the paper.
He did not look satisfied.
He looked thoughtful.
That was allowed.
An apology could answer some questions and leave others.
He asked whether Helena would be upset if he didn’t reply.
