Mom takes me shopping for plant stuff. “You want to know,” she says, shaking a packet of seeds. “That’s what your father looked like.”
A snow-drop on a fawn’s nose, a leaf adrift on a gentle stream; these most beautiful things could not be surpassed. Then her baby was born.
In addition to the exemption, the accountant says, your son’ll bring you a nice tax credit. Father beams. Once a year, he finds me of value.
After such a long day, Jen tuned out all the honking and yelling as she entered the freeway. Then she noticed the baby seat was missing.
He saw all the tiny signs that divulged his boy had played there: the toppled books, the crack on the TV, the faulty hasp on the lockbox.
Father watches daughter run, jump, swing, laugh, spin, dance, climb. Tell her now? No. He treasures her last minutes of innocent bliss.