He turned around, and the smile instantly vanished.
“What are you doing here?”
“I should ask you.”
I showed him the letter.
His face cracked.
“I should have told you,” she whispered.
“Then tell me now.”
She wiped away her tears. “I’ve been coming here for two years… after work. I dress up. To make the kids laugh. It’s Owen’s fault.”
His words hit me like a wave.
She told me that Owen had once said that the hardest thing wasn’t the pain, but seeing other children scared.
“I wish someone would make them smile… even if just for an hour.”
So Charlie became that person.
“I didn’t tell him,” Charlie said. “I wanted it to be his fault, not hers.”
Then I realized that his departure was not a rejection.
It was pain… and guilt… and something too heavy to share.
We came home together.
In Owen’s room, Charlie lifted the loose tiles. Inside was a small box.
A wooden sculpture.
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