Not because he needed approval of every choice.
Because children liked showing people things.
On Monday, he brought the invitation home.
Cream paper.
Two tickets.
A drawing of the tin traveler in one corner.
He decorated the envelope.
DAD went across the front in blue letters.
I watched him write it twice because the first D looked, according to him, like a potato.
He left the envelope beside Darian’s breakfast place.
His father left early the following morning.
Helena said she would put it with his papers.
By afternoon, the envelope was gone.
I thought it had reached him.
Max thought so too.
That was the first mistake on which the others had been built.
Darian asked whether Max wanted food brought in.
The boy said no.
Then asked whether there were still bread rolls.
I went to the kitchen.
When I returned, father and son were sitting closer.
Max had stopped crying, though his face looked exhausted.
Darian asked whether he wanted me to hear the rest.
He nodded.
“Helena said you were embarrassed.”
His father remained still.
“About the costume?”
“Yes.”
“She said I laughed?”
Max nodded.
“She said you asked why I couldn’t be a normal person.”
The bread in my hand suddenly felt too heavy.
Darian looked at his son.
“I never said that.”
Max’s eyes filled again.
“Not even a little?”
“No.”
The boy stared.
Then he looked toward the door.
“Was she wrong?”
“Yes.”
“Or did she say it on purpose?”
Darian took a breath.
“I’m going to find out exactly what happened.”
Max pulled his knees closer.
“Can you tell me?”
“When I know what you need to know, yes.”
His father did not promise to explain every adult conversation.
He did promise not to leave the child living inside a false one.
