I Got Home From the Oil Rig Two Weeks Early and Found My Eight-Year-Old Son Cooking Dinner for Strangers—The Messages He Never Sent Explained Everything.
I’m here.
I’m not going anywhere.
I love you.
I passed the phone back to him.
Finn read it, nodded one time, and said, “Send.”
“It can’t send, buddy.
It doesn’t have a SIM.”
He smiled, the crooked smile I had missed on every call from every rig.
“I know,” he said.
“But it still got there.”
THE END