The man crouched down so he was level with me, his voice softer than his size suggested. “My name is Roy,” he said. “I’ve been visiting your son’s school every Friday for the last two months. Reading program. Volunteers come in, sit with the kids who need a little extra help.” He glanced at Malachi, who was still staring at the ground. “Your boy was the quietest one in the room the first day. Wouldn’t say a word. But he kept coming back to my table.” My grip on Malachi’s hand loosened slightly, though my heart was still pounding. None of this explained the way my son had thrown himself into a stranger’s arms like family.

Then Roy reached into the inside pocket of his leather vest and pulled out a worn photograph, its edges soft from handling. He held it out to me with a hand that trembled just slightly. “I didn’t plan to do it like this,” he said. “But your son told me his mother’s name last week, and I’ve been trying to work up the courage ever since.” I took the photo. It was old, faded, a young woman holding a baby outside a hospital. It took me a moment to understand what I was looking at. The woman was my mother. The baby was me. And standing behind them, younger, thinner, but unmistakable, was Roy.