“Sloane?”
She nodded.
The little boy looked up at her.
“Mommy, is this the lady?”
“Yes, Charlie.”
I couldn’t stop staring.
“Mommy, is this the lady?”
The last time I’d seen Sloane, she’d been seven years old, clutching a book at my son’s funeral.
Now she was standing on my porch with a child of her own.
“I should’ve come here years ago,” she said.
“Oh, honey.”
“I should’ve come here years ago.”
She looked at me again.
“Your son wasn’t at that river by accident. I need to tell you the truth.”
I held on to the doorframe.
“What are you talking about?”
“I need to tell you the truth.”
Sloane looked down at her son.
Then she said something I’d never expected.
“Weston came there to meet me.”
***
I invited them inside.
She said something I’d never expected.
