Chapter 1
I was twenty minutes from Rochelle’s house when she texted me.
Eli doesn’t want to go today.
I pulled into a gas station and read it again.
My son was seven. The night before, he had called to ask whether we could build the model bridge I’d bought him. He wanted to paint the supports blue because, according to Eli, every bridge looked better in blue.
I typed, I’ll ask him when I get there.
Rochelle’s answer came before I put the car in gear.
Don’t make a scene.
I drove the remaining twenty minutes with the model kit on the passenger seat. I had been on the road since ten that morning. Our parenting schedule said I would pick Eli up at noon and bring him back Sunday evening.
When Rochelle moved two hours away, she promised we would make the distance work. Lately, “making it work” meant I drove there, waited outside, and heard another reason my son couldn’t come.
He had a cold.
He was tired.
He had a birthday party she’d forgotten to mention.
I tried to be patient. Children did get sick. Plans changed. But the missed visits had begun to outnumber the ones we kept.
At eleven fifty-eight, I parked across from her house. Eli’s red bicycle leaned against the porch railing.
I carried the model kit to the door and knocked.
Rochelle opened it a few inches. She stayed in the gap so I couldn’t see past her.
“You got my message,” she said.
“I did. I’m here for Eli.”
“He’s upset.”
“Then let me talk to him.”
“He needs space.”
“Last night he asked what color we should paint a bridge.”
Rochelle’s eyes flickered.
“He changed his mind.”
I could hear a television inside. Above it, I thought I heard footsteps.
“Rochelle, our agreement says he comes with me today. If he wants to tell me he’s upset, I’ll listen. I need to hear it from him.”
She pulled the door closer.
“You always arrive quoting the agreement.”
“I arrived with something he asked to build.”
“He isn’t a project, Warren.”
“I know that.”
I stepped back from the door. My hands were shaking, and I didn’t want her to think I meant to push past her.
For a few seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then Rochelle said, “Did you send the money for his new shoes?”
“I sent child support on Monday. I told you I’d pay half for the shoes when you sent the receipt.”
“He needs them now.”
“Send me the size. I can buy them while he’s with me.”
She gave a short laugh. “Of course. You want to be the one who hands them to him.”
“I want him to have shoes that fit.”
“Then transfer the money.”
I looked at the model kit under my arm. There was a time when Rochelle and I could disagree over a bill without Eli’s visit hanging in the balance. I tried to remember when that changed.
“I’ll pay for his shoes,” I said. “I’m still here to see him.”
Rochelle’s face tightened.
“You have plenty of money for weekend trips with Maya.”
“My relationship with Maya has nothing to do with my time with Eli.”
“It has everything to do with it. You think I’m going to send my son over there to play happy family?”
“Maya has never asked him to call her anything. She hasn’t even been here.”
“She’s at your house when he visits.”
“Sometimes. Eli likes her. We’ve talked about that.”
“We talked about what you wanted.”
I took a breath. We had tried this argument by phone before. I knew how quickly it could swallow an afternoon while Eli waited somewhere inside.
“If you have a concern about Maya, we can discuss it with the counselor,” I said. “Please don’t keep Eli from me.”
Rochelle stared at me.
“You’re acting like I don’t know what my own child needs.”
“I’m asking to speak to him.”
A floorboard creaked behind her. She glanced over her shoulder and pushed the door nearly shut.
That movement hurt more than her words. Eli was close enough to hear us.
I lowered my voice.
“I drove two hours because I told him I’d be here.”
“He’s fine.”
“Then let him tell me.”
Rochelle looked past me toward my car. “You still have that old blue truck?”
“Eli asked me to bring it. He likes sitting up high.”
“He likes whatever you tell him to like.”
I felt anger rise and pressed my free hand against the edge of the model-kit box.
I could have argued about every phone call Eli and I had shared that week. I could have told her how he described the bridge he wanted to build, down to the tiny road signs. Instead, I asked one more time.
“Can I see my son?”
“No.”
She started to close the door.
From somewhere inside came a small voice.
“Mom?”
Rochelle stopped.
I heard quick footsteps. She turned away from me, and the door opened just enough for me to see a flash of Eli’s green sweatshirt.
“Eli, go back inside,” she said.
He slipped around her.
For one second, he stood on the porch staring at me. His hair stuck up at the back. He held one sneaker in his hand and wore the other on his foot.
Then his face changed.
May you like
“Daddy!”
He ran down the steps and straight into my arms.
