I felt the “you’re not my dad” line to my chest. It was cliché, said by every single step-kid ever, but man, it was effective. I could see David crumple into his seat at the kitchen table. I wanted to tell him to come with me. That I was doing this for him, for us. But he simply sat down and shut up. Some of the kids ran up to him, oblivious to what was going on, and showed them the brightly colored eggs and the chocolate treats inside.
I left because I said I would, and I was a man of my word. But once in the car, I had no idea where to go.
So I drove, like I’d once driven across the US before even meeting Jack, and hoped that I would figure it out in the process.
* * * *
I ended up at a movie theatre. An indie one, located about a half hour from their family home. Rain had started to
