While I waited, I stood at the front window and watched the driveway like I could force her car to appear.
My mind kept racing through possibilities.
Car accident.
Hospital.
Kidnapping.
Some bizarre misunderstanding.
Every scenario ended with Leo scared, and every second without an answer made me sicker.
The truth was, Brenda had been circling this moment for months.
She hated Leo’s hair.
Not in the harmless, old-fashioned way some relatives dislike long styles on little boys.
Brenda hated it like it offended her personally.
Every visit came with some cutting remark.
yes and saying I was being dramatic, that hair grew back, that someone had to do what was best for him.
And I remember Leo flinching every time her voice got sharper.
I took him inside because if I stayed in that driveway another ten seconds, I would have said something none of us could take back.
He curled against me on the couch, still holding that single blond ringlet so tightly it left a red half-moon in his palm.
He cried until he hiccupped.
Then he cried some more.
When Mark came home and saw our son, he stopped so abruptly his keys slipped out of his hand.
He crossed the room, knelt on the rug, and looked at Leo’s head the way a person looks at damage after a storm.
Very gently, he ran his fingers over the hacked-off patches.
Leo threw himself into Mark’s chest.
