His little chin trembled. “Because my daddy’s not coming back. Mama said he went to heaven last week. Car accident. He never got to see me make the hundred shots.”
My heart cracked right down the middle.
I had to look away. Couldn’t let this kid see a grown man cry. But I was crying. Tears running into my beard.
“What’s your name, son?”
“Marcus. Marcus Williams.”
“Marcus, my name’s Robert. I’m real sorry about your daddy.”
Marcus looked at my bike, then back at me. “My daddy liked motorcycles too. He said when I turned sixteen, he’d teach me to ride.”
I crouched down to his level. This little boy who’d lost everything but was still out here practicing. Still trying to make his daddy proud. Still shooting at a trash can because that was all he had.
“Marcus, where’s your mama?”
“Inside. She’s been real sad. Stays in bed a lot now.”
Marcus studied my face. Whatever he saw there made him trust me. “Okay. But she might not answer the door. She doesn’t answer for anyone anymore.”
I walked up to that little house with Marcus beside me. Paint peeling. Gutters sagging. A house that had seen better days, just like the family inside it.
I knocked. No answer. Knocked again.
“Mama won’t come,” Marcus said quietly. “I told you.”
“That’s okay, buddy. We’ll wait.”
I sat down on the porch steps. Marcus sat next to me. We sat there for twenty minutes in silence. Finally, the door cracked open.
A woman stood there. Young. Maybe late twenties. But her eyes looked ancient. Exhausted. Broken.Continue reading…
