His missed call sat at the top of her screen. I picked up her phone and opened his number.
“If he wants to come home,” I said, “he can see what home looks like now.”
I typed: “Come to a family reunion dinner on Sunday at 7 p.m. All the kids will be there. Wear your best suit. I’ll send the address.”
Mom’s hand flew to her mouth. “Mia, what are you doing?”
“Setting something straight.”
His reply came fast. “Dear, thank you for this second chance. I can’t wait to become a family again.”
My brain dragged me backward to the church basement 10 years earlier.
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Dear. Like she was a stranger, not the woman he’d left holding everything.
That night I lay in bed staring at the cracked ceiling, listening to the house breathe. My brain dragged me backward to the church basement 10 years earlier.
I was 15, sitting on a metal chair that pinched my legs. My little brothers and sisters fidgeted, swinging their feet, sipping watery church coffee they weren’t supposed to have. Henry stood in front of us, Bible in hand, like he was about to preach.
Mom sat off to the side, belly huge, ankles swollen, eyes swollen worse. She stared at the floor, a tissue crushed in her fist. Dad cleared his throat.
Dad gave him a soft, rehearsed smile.
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“Kids,” he said, “God is calling me elsewhere.”
Liam, 10 years old and still trusting, frowned. “Like another church?”
Dad gave him a soft, rehearsed smile. “Something like that.”
