Then he looked around the nursery.
“The only thing I knew how to do was build things.”
His eyes settled on the paper wrens.
“I built an entire company so my family would never want for anything.”
He swallowed.
“And it turned out the only thing either of you wanted was for me to show up.”
Two years earlier, he told me, he had suffered a heart attack alone in his office.
Lying on the floor waiting for paramedics, he realized that if he died, I might learn about it from the news.
After recovering, he stepped away from the company.
Hired a CEO.
Started therapy.
Sixteen years late, as he put it.
His counselor asked what he regretted most.
“Chicago,” he answered.
“What are you going to do about it?” she asked.
“Nothing. It’s over.”
And she replied:
“Is it? Your daughter is still alive.”
“So you built a nursery,” I said.
“So I built a nursery.”
He looked at Wren.
“I thought maybe I can’t fix Chicago. But if you ever need somewhere to go, I can at least already be here when you arrive.”
Then he looked at me.
“And tonight you called.”
“Dad, come get me.”
