father’s expression hardened.
“You really think this man cares about you more than your own father?”
I looked directly at him.
“You don’t even know what position I play.”
He blamed Mom for keeping him away.
But I finally asked the question that mattered.
“You knew where we lived, didn’t you?”
He said nothing.
“You knew my birthday. You managed to find me today. You could have sent one card.”
Still nothing.
“You had fourteen years.”
He offered me the keys again.
And for one second, I wanted them.
Of course I did.
I had dreamed about having a car.
No more waiting for the bus.
No more asking for rides.
Freedom.
Then I remembered Ray’s worn-out work boots.
His packed lunches.
His delayed truck repairs.
Five dollars here.
Twenty dollars there.
Whatever he could spare.
Again and again.
I took the keys.
Relief appeared on my biological father’s face.
