He looked at the sidewalk.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry.

My mom got angry when Dad wouldn’t take her back.

She barely cooks now, she doesn’t help me with my schoolwork.

Dad hardly talks to me.” He looked up.

“I get it now.

You were the one who did everything for us.” I had met that boy when he was a hurt and bewildered eight-year-old, and I had spent five years trying to love him as my own, which was the whole reason his cruelty had been able to cut so deep.

“What you did was wrong, Tristan,” I said gently.