I was willing to do the work for myself, for Margaret’s memory, and for the possibility that one day I might have a relationship with my son again.
Part Four
Two years later, Michael was released.
I drove to pick him up.
I was not legally or morally obligated to do it. I could have allowed him to arrange his own transportation. Part of me considered staying home.
But another part believed that if I expected him to rebuild his life, someone needed to meet him at the beginning of that road.
When Michael walked through the gates, he looked older.
His hair was shorter and touched with gray near the temples. His face was thinner. The expensive suits, polished shoes, and carefully maintained image were gone.
What remained was a quiet humility I had not seen in him for years.
He stopped when he noticed my truck.
Then he saw me standing beside it.
