I almost laughed.
He hadn’t even seen her yet, and he was already speaking as though she had been waiting for him.
I should have closed the door.
Instead, I asked the question that had haunted me since childhood.
“Do you ever think about what you did to her?”
His expression hardened.
“I made mistakes.”
“You left her when she needed you most.”
“I was young.”
“You were older than I am now.”
He looked away.
Then he said the words that made me understand how little he had changed.
“Let’s be realistic, Heidi. After what happened to her face, I doubt men were exactly lining up.”
For a moment, I was eleven years old again.
I was standing on the stairs, listening to him tell my mother that he couldn’t look at her anymore.
Now he was standing on her porch, ten years later, speaking as though her scars had been a problem he had nobly agreed to tolerate.