He took my hand. “Then we’ll figure it out.”
“You’re not scared?”
“Terrified.”
I laughed through my tears.
He kissed my forehead before leaving that evening and told me he would call in the morning.
He didn’t.
By noon, my messages were unread.
By evening, his phone went directly to voicemail.
The following morning, I drove to his apartment.
Half his closet was empty.
That was when I understood this wasn’t panic.
Caleb hadn’t simply become overwhelmed and forgotten to call.
He had gone somewhere on purpose.
I kept waiting until sometime around my fifth month, when Grandpa Walter finished sanding the crib in his garage and told me we would be fine, just the three of us.
My parents had died when I was ten, and Grandpa had raised me ever since.
The few belongings I still had from my mother were packed inside a cedar box at the back of my closet—old photographs and letters I had never had the courage to read.
Grandpa drove me to every prenatal appointment.
