I nearly dialed 911 on the tattooed teenager holding a screaming baby inside an empty 1 AM laundromat. Then his bag tore open, and my stomach sank with utter shame.

slightly.

“I’m not asking you to give them to her. She’s too young. Maybe she never reads them. I just wanted you to know I wasn’t forgetting her. I was failing her. There’s a difference, even if it doesn’t make it better.”

Jackson looked at the notebook.

Then at Rachel.

Then at me.

I saw the war in his face.

The old pain.

The new fear.

The father trying to continue reading …