Part 6 — The Son Daniel Never Met
The following days blurred together.
I barely slept.
I went through photographs of Daniel at twenty.
Thirty.
Forty.
Fifty.
Now, every time I looked at his face, I wondered what he would have done if he had known.
Would he have been angry with Monica?
Heartbroken?
Would he have welcomed Luke immediately?
Would he have needed time?
I would never know.
That was perhaps the hardest part.
There was no conversation left to have with him.
No explanation I could demand.
No question he could answer.
Luke didn’t contact us.
Neither did Monica.
The sign disappeared from her lawn.
The fruit remained in her garage.
For a while, the fence between our houses felt ten feet higher than before.
Then one afternoon, Ben shouted from the garden.
“Mom! Look!”
I hurried outside.
He was standing beneath one of the tallest trees.
Several apples remained near the very top, partly hidden behind leaves.
Monica had missed them.
Ben looked delighted.
“Dad always said the high ones were the sweetest.”
I smiled through the ache in my chest.
“Then we’d better find out.”
Together, we dragged Daniel’s ladder upright.
I held it while Ben climbed only as high as I allowed.
We picked the last few apples.
Not many.
Enough.
That evening, Ben helped me make Daniel’s favorite apple pie.
He rolled the dough too hard.
Used too much cinnamon.
Dropped flour across half the kitchen.
Daniel would have loved every second.
When the pie was finished, Ben looked at me.
“Can we give some to Luke?”
I stopped.
“Why Luke?”
Ben shrugged.
“He didn’t get to know Dad.”
Children sometimes walk directly toward truths adults spend days avoiding.
I looked at the warm pie.
Then toward Monica’s house.
“Get your shoes.”
