The memory returned.
Each crayon-written Christmas list. A brother, a bicycle, and Legos.
Always in that order.
“I’m not upset about Ben,” Luke said. “I’m upset about Dad.”
Part Eleven: Mike
At 6:52, a truck pulled into the driveway.
Luke froze.
A truck door slammed. Boots thudded along the path. Then a key turned in the front lock.
The deadbolt remained engaged, stopping the key.
Mike knocked.
“Sarah?” he called. “Door’s locked. You okay?”
Luke turned toward me, pale-faced.
“Mom,” he whispered. “What do I do?”
I studied my
