Our little boy didn’t need a financial empire to feel secure.
He needed parents who told the truth and showed up.
One evening, David entered the garage wearing his familiar flannel shirt.
I followed him and found him repairing an old motorcycle engine.
He glanced up.
“You’re looking at me strangely.”
I leaned against the doorway.
“I’m trying to understand how a billionaire still gets grease beneath his fingernails.”
He smiled.
“Engines don’t care how much money you have.”
I considered that.
“Neither does a four-year-old with a broken toy.”
“Exactly.”
I walked over and kissed his cheek.
“I still like this version of you.”
His smile faded slightly.
“I’m glad.”
I took his hand.
“But I need to know all the other versions too.”
He nodded.
“You will.”
Two months after Leo’s hospitalization, a handwritten letter arrived without a return address.
I recognized Eleanor’s elegant handwriting immediately.
