He told Emma about it late one night in March.
Emma told him he deserved answers. Whatever they turned out to be.
But Ryan couldn’t talk about his mother with his father. Every time her name came up, Greg’s face went hard and he left the room. It had been that way for twenty-three years.
So Emma had an idea.
“Dad’s good at finding things,” she told Ryan. “He’s the most patient person I know. Let him help.”
And David, my David, who checks tire pressure and writes anniversary cards, spent six weeks quietly tracking down a woman he’d never met. Through old court records. Through an old address in Toledo. Through a cousin on Facebook.
He found her living two hours away.
He set up the first meeting. A coffee shop halfway between. Ryan and his mother, sitting across from each other for the first time in twenty-three years. David waited in the car in the parking lot the whole time, in case Ryan needed him.
