I had told him not to wander far. We’d just stepped out of the library, and as I rummaged through my bag looking for the bus card, I glanced up—and froze. My six-year-old was kneeling beside a man slouched against a building wall, offering him his sandwich with both hands, gently and without hesitation. My heart skipped. I rushed toward them, already apologizing, thinking my son had crossed a line. But the man looked up, his face tired yet soft, and gave a faint smile. “It’s okay,” he said. “I was just thanking your boy.”
My son turned to me and whispered, “He looks like Grandpa. Can we give him the juice too?” The man’s face shifted, like hearing a name he hadn’t thought about in years. Something in his expression—a flicker of something deeply familiar—stirred something in me. I hesitated and then asked, “Do you… know a Peter Colton?” His eyes widened slightly. “Used to. A long time ago. Why?”
I felt a lump form in my throat. “He was my father.”
He looked at me for a long moment, then back at my son. “Then I guess that makes you… family.”