I LET A HOMELESS BOY SLEEP IN THE BACK ROOM OF A GAS STATION FOR TWO WINTERS. MY MANAGER FIRED ME AND CALLED ME A THIEF IN FRONT OF EVERYONE. SIX YEARS LATER, ON THE MORNING I WAS BEING EVICTED, THAT SAME BOY RETURNED—WEARING A FIRE DEPARTMENT UNIFORM AND CARRYING SOMETHING THAT CHANGED MY LIFE FOREVER.

I looked at the little girl.

She was playing with the zipper on Danny’s jacket.

“Why didn’t he contact me?”

Danny hesitated.

“He tried.”

My heart stopped.

“What?”

“He wrote letters. He called your old number. He even drove past your house once.”

I shook my head.

“I never received anything.”

“I know.”

He reached into the folder and removed a small bundle of envelopes.

They were old, worn, and unopened.

Every one was addressed to me.

My name.

My old address.

My son’s handwriting.

I took the first letter.

The date was from nine years earlier.

My fingers trembled as I opened it.

Mom,

I don’t know if you’ll ever read this. I don’t know if you want to hear from me. I keep thinking about the last morning I saw you. I should have stayed. I should have told you I was scared instead of leaving.

I found a job. I’m trying to get my life together. I think about you every day.