And yet, somehow, he still grieved him.
Not for the father he had lost.
Levi was his father.
He grieved the possibility.
The questions he would never get to ask.
The voice he would never hear.
The chance to compare mannerisms, stories, and memories.
Marlene could not give him Sebastian.
But she could give him pieces.
Photographs.
Stories.
Family history.
She told him the triangular mark had appeared in several generations.
“We used to call it the family arrow,” she said.
Then she showed him another photograph.
Sebastian as a baby.
Same mark.
Same place.
Ethan laughed softly.
“Lily has it too.”
Marlene smiled.
“Then I suppose the arrow found its way forward.”
When we returned home, I bought a blank notebook.
On the first page, I wrote:
FOR LILY — FROM ALL THE PEOPLE WHO LOVE YOU.
Then I began listing names.
Stories.
Dates.
Photographs.
