“I think I might like them.”

I watched him walk toward the parking lot and realized a difficult truth: children could still offer one another grace when the adults had used years of their lives learning not to.

<strong>PART 8</strong>

That evening I retrieved a metal file box from the top of my closet.

Inside were the parenting agreement, the support order, and thirteen years of records.

There were pay stubs from jobs I could barely remember, reimbursement requests for specialist appointments, and receipts for the boys’ braces and glasses.