A little boy, not quite two, with dark curls and a small dimple in his chin.
And a face — from the side, in the afternoon light — that made a sound come out of me before I could stop it.
Because it was Caleb’s face.
My son’s face, at that age, looking back at me from a stranger’s arms on a doorstep at the end of a street I’d never driven down.
The young woman saw me standing at her broken gate.
She went very pale.
« You’re Diane, » she said. Not a question. « You’re his mom.
I’ve seen you at the cemetery. I always waited until you left. »
The dog looked back and forth between us, tail wagging slowly, like he’d been trying to arrange this exact meeting for months.
« I’m sorry, » she whispered. « I wanted to tell you. I’ve wanted to tell you for three years.
