Curled together beneath a single heavy blanket were my grandsons, Nathan and Oliver. Their bodies were pressed close for warmth, faces pale, shoes still on.
Children only sleep with their shoes on when they’re afraid they’ll be told to move.
I knocked on the window, hard.
Michael jolted awake like an animal startled from cover, eyes darting in panic before landing on me. The fear drained instantly.
What replaced it was worse.
Shame.
“Dad?” His voice barely worked.
He opened the door, cold air rushing in, and one of the boys shifted but didn’t wake.
“Why,” I asked, my voice cracking despite every effort to control it, “are you living in a car with my grandsons?”
He stared at the steering wheel.
Then his shoulders folded inward, and whatever he’d been holding together finally collapsed.
An hour later, we sat in a corner booth at a diner just off the airport highway. The boys slept beside us, wrapped in coats and exhaustion, pancakes untouched, their heads leaning together like they’d learned to take up as little space as possible.
Michael cupped a mug of coffee with both hands like it was an anchor.
“They took everything,” he said quietly.
I let him talk. Continue reading…
