“Because when you were seven years old, you used to wait on the porch with your backpack when your mother forgot pickup.

You would pretend you liked watching the streetlights come on.”

I remembered that porch.

I remembered the cold concrete step beneath my legs and the way I told myself Mom would be there any minute.

I remembered Richard’s old truck pulling up one evening when the sky had turned purple.

He had brought me hot chocolate and said, “Traffic happens.” He had never said, “They forgot you.”

“I thought you didn’t notice,” I whispered.