“Yes.”
“Then why wasn’t he here?”
“He was scared when he was young. He listened to his parents instead of making his own decision.”
Lucas waited.
“But later, he had choices of his own, and he still stayed away.”
“Did Mom want him to stay?”
“She wanted him to choose you for himself.”
“Did he?”
I forced myself not to soften the truth.
“Not when he should have.”
Lucas stared at the photo.
“Do you hate him?”
“I did before I knew who he was.”
“And now?”
“I understand him better.”
I paused.
“That isn’t the same thing as forgiving him.”
Lucas nodded.
“Do I have to meet him?”
“No.”
“But can I?”
Every frightened part of me wanted to say not yet.
For ten years, Lucas and I had been enough.
What if letting this man into our lives changed everything?
Then I remembered Teagan’s words.
You never asked why I was scared.
I wasn’t going to make Lucas pay for my fear.
“Yes,” I said.
Their first meeting took place at a public baseball field.
Lucas chose it.
His father was already there.
In his hand was the same worn leather glove from the photograph.
Lucas stopped when he saw it.
“That’s the glove.”
His father looked down.
“Yeah.”
“You kept it all this time?”
“I kept more things than I had a right to.”
Lucas stepped closer.
“I’m Lucas.”
Then he pointed toward the field.
“Are you any good?”
His father gave a nervous smile.
“Not really.”
“You owned a glove.”
“Having a glove and being good are two completely different things.”
Lucas smiled.
They started throwing the ball.
At first, it was awkward.
One throw went too high.
Lucas missed it.
“Sorry,” his father said. “That one was my fault.”
“I should’ve caught it.”
“No. I threw it badly.”
I stood several yards away.
After a while, Lucas asked him something I couldn’t hear.
His father crouched beside him.
My body automatically moved one step forward.
Then I stopped.
Lucas looked at him.
The man answered.
I stayed where I was.
One afternoon did not suddenly make him part of our family.
The first week, he called once.
The next week, twice.
He never showed up without asking.
He never demanded that Lucas call him Dad.
And when Lucas didn’t feel like talking one evening, he accepted it.
I watched everything.
Not because I trusted him.
Trust wasn’t something he earned simply by finally appearing.
He would have to build it.
Maybe I would too.
Three weeks later, Lucas sat at the kitchen table eating Sunday pancakes.
Too thick, as usual.
“He wants to come to my game Saturday.”
I set down the syrup.
“Do you want him there?”
Lucas nodded.
“Yeah.”
“Then he should come.”
He studied me.
“You won’t be mad?”
“No.”
“He’s still not my dad-dad.”
“You don’t have to decide what to call him.”
Lucas went back to his pancakes.
I reached across the table and straightened his napkin out of habit.
Then I looked at the syrup bottle.
The crumbs.
The plate sitting crooked beside his elbow.
Normally, I would have fixed all of it.
That morning, I left everything exactly where it was.
Because for ten years, I had believed protecting Lucas meant controlling every uncertain thing around him.
Now I understood something Teagan had tried to tell me long ago.
Sometimes loving someone means asking what they’re afraid of.
Sometimes it means telling the truth even when the truth is uncomfortable.
And sometimes it means giving someone the space to choose what happens next.
