Maybe I had missed my chance.
For twenty-two years, I had told myself my life belonged to my girls.
But they weren’t little girls anymore.
And for the first time, I understood something.
Loving them had never required me to stop living.
I stared at Rachel’s name.
Then I pressed call.
It rang once.
Twice.
Three times.
I almost hung up.
Then a woman answered.
“Hello?”
My throat tightened.
“Rachel?”
Silence.
Then a soft laugh I hadn’t heard in years.
“Mason Carter.”
I smiled.
“Yeah.”
“I wondered if you’d ever call.”
I looked at the two framed pieces of paper on the wall.
One marked the night my old life ended.
The other proved what had been built in its place.
“I’m a little late,” I said.
Rachel laughed.
“You always were.”
I sat down at the kitchen table.
The same table where I had once written that I didn’t know how to be a father.
