Matthew was standing when I entered.
That surprised me.
Until then, I had only seen him sitting.
Standing, he looked even older.
Taller.
Closer to the man he was becoming than the little boy I remembered.
He turned toward me.
"Hey."
I smiled.
"Hey."
There was something comforting about the awkwardness.
Neither of us knew exactly how to behave.
But neither of us had walked away.
Matthew glanced at the chair.
"Do you want to sit?"
"Sure."
We sat across from each other.
The cup of water was still on the table.
I wondered how many times I had looked at it.
It had become one of those small things I could not stop noticing.
The cup.
The table.
The window.
Matthew's hands.
Ordinary objects in an extraordinary day.
Matthew looked at me carefully.
"Did Ramirez ask you about the photograph?"
"Yes."
He nodded.
"I thought he would."
I waited.
Matthew rubbed his fingers together.
"Do you think Robert did something?"
I felt my chest tighten.
There it was.
The question I had been circling all afternoon.
I did not want to lie.
But I did not want to give Matthew a suspicion and make it his own.
"I don't know."
He looked at me.
"Really?"
"Really."
I took a breath.
"I remember Robert being there."
"And?"
"I remember him near the pool when people were looking for you."
Matthew lowered his eyes.
I continued carefully.
"I don't know what that means."
He nodded slowly.
I watched his face.
I wanted to ask whether the detail brought anything back.
But I did not.
Matthew had already told me how uncertain his memories were.
I would not put words into them.
He looked toward the window.
"I wish somebody could just tell us."
"So do I."
He leaned back.
"Do you think we'll find out?"
I considered the question.
I wanted to say yes.
I wanted to promise him that Ramirez would uncover everything.
That the missing years would finally make sense.
That every question would receive an answer.
But I had promised myself I would stop saying things simply because they made the moment easier.
"I hope so."
Matthew looked at me.
"That's all?"
I nodded.
"That's all I can honestly say."
He thought about it.
Then he gave a small nod.
"Okay."
We sat quietly.
I wondered whether he was disappointed.
I was disappointed too.
But I had spent eleven years being given an answer that turned out to be wrong.
I did not want another one.
Matthew tapped his finger against the cup.
"Can I ask something else?"
"Of course."
He looked at me.
"What do you want from me?"
I stared.
I had not expected that question.
For eleven years, my answer would have been simple.
I wanted my son back.
But sitting across from him, I understood how frightening that might sound.
Back.
As though he were an object returned to its owner.
As though eleven years had not happened.
As though he could simply become the little boy in the photograph again.
I lowered my eyes.
"I want to know you."
Matthew watched me.
"That's it?"
I thought carefully.
"I want you to be safe."
He nodded.
"And I'd like to be part of your life."
I paused.
"But I know I can't decide what that looks like by myself."
Matthew looked down.
He seemed to be considering something difficult.
I waited.
He rubbed his thumb against his finger.
"I don't remember being your little kid."
The words hurt.
But I understood.
"You remember some things," I said.
"Yeah."
He glanced toward the door.
"Not enough."
I shook my head.
"You don't have to remember more just because I'm here."
He looked at me.
"What if I never do?"
I felt my throat tighten.
"Then we work with what we have."
He looked uncertain.
I tried again.
"We don't have to pretend you remember things you don't."
He nodded.
"And we don't have to pretend the last eleven years didn't happen."
Matthew sat very still.
Then he let out a slow breath.
"Good."
That one word told me more than a long conversation might have.
He was afraid I would expect him to return to a childhood he no longer remembered.
I had been afraid of losing him again.
We had both walked into that room carrying expectations the other person could not possibly satisfy.
I looked at him.
"Can I tell you something?"
"Yeah."
"I've been thinking of you as the boy in that photograph."
Matthew glanced toward the door.
"The one with the bucket?"
"Yes."
He gave a small smile.
I looked at my hands.
"That's the last version of you I knew."
He nodded.
"But you're not that little boy anymore."
"No."
"I know."
I took a breath.
"I'm going to have to learn who you are now."
Matthew watched me.
"Is that okay?"
I smiled.
"That's what I want."
He looked down.
For a while, he said nothing.
Then he asked whether I wanted to know something about him.
I felt my face change.
"Of course."
He smiled a little.
"I'm not good at talking about myself."
I laughed softly.
"Neither am I."
That made him smile properly.
Not for long.
But long enough for me to remember it.
He looked at the cup again.
"Maybe we could just talk."
I nodded.
"I'd like that."
"Not about the beach all the time."
"All right."
He looked at me carefully.
"Not about where I've been every minute."
I felt the weight of that request.
He was not refusing to tell me anything.
He was asking me to see him as more than the mystery of his disappearance.
I understood.
Or at least I was beginning to.
"Okay."
He seemed relieved.
I leaned back.
"Then what would you like to talk about?"
Matthew thought for a moment.
Then he asked me what I liked doing when I wasn't working.
I almost laughed.
It was such an ordinary question.
After everything that had happened, my son wanted to know what I did with my free time.
I answered as honestly as I could.
He listened.
Then he told me a little about himself.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing that explained eleven years.
Just ordinary pieces of the person sitting in front of me.
I listened carefully.
I did not interrupt.
I did not try to connect every answer to something he had liked as a child.
That was difficult.
I wanted to find signs of the boy I remembered.
But Matthew was not a photograph.
He was alive.
He was speaking.
And he deserved to be heard as himself.
At one point, he stopped and looked embarrassed.
"Sorry. I'm talking a lot."
I shook my head.
"No."
He smiled faintly.
"I don't mind."
I leaned forward.
"I want to hear you."
He looked at me for a moment.
Then he continued.
I tried to remember the sound of his voice.
The way he paused before answering.
The way he looked away when he became uncomfortable.
The way his expression changed when he forgot to be nervous.
Those were the things I had missed.
Not one extraordinary moment.
Thousands of ordinary ones.
I had missed the chance to know him slowly.
But maybe I still had that chance.
Not to recover the childhood I had lost.
To know the person he was now.
After a while, Matthew looked toward the door.
"Do you think Ramirez is finished?"
"Maybe."
He nodded.
Then he looked at me again.
"Can we talk tomorrow?"
My heart seemed to stop.
I had wanted to ask him the same thing.
But I had been afraid of pressuring him.
I swallowed.
"Yes."
He looked relieved.
"Good."
I smiled.
"Tomorrow, then."
He nodded.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
I wanted to hug him.
I could feel that wish in my hands.
But I remembered how carefully he had watched me when we first met.
So I asked.
"Would it be all right if I hugged you?"
Matthew looked surprised.
He glanced down.
Then he nodded.
"Yeah."
I stood slowly.
He stood too.
I moved toward him.
And for the first time in eleven years, I put my arms around my son.
He was taller than the child I remembered.
His shoulders were broader.
The shape of him was unfamiliar.
For a second, his arms stayed at his sides.
Then he hugged me back.
Not tightly.
Not for long.
But he did.
I closed my eyes.
I had imagined this moment so many times.
Every imagined version had been different.
Some had been full of tears.
Some had been full of laughter.
Some had ended with Matthew calling my name across a crowded beach.
The real moment was quiet.
Two people standing beside a table.
A cup of water nearby.
A closed door behind us.
I wanted to hold on forever.
Instead, I let him decide when the hug ended.
He stepped back.
His eyes looked wet.
He glanced away.
I did the same.
Neither of us mentioned it.
After a moment, Matthew gave me a small smile.
"Tomorrow?"
I nodded.
"Tomorrow."
He sat down again.
I walked toward the door.
Before opening it, I looked back.
Matthew was looking at me.
For eleven years, I had remembered turning away from my son and never seeing him again.
Now I could look back.
And he was still there.
I opened the door.
Ramirez was waiting outside.
He looked at my face.
I did not tell him everything we had said.
I did not try to explain the hug.
I only asked what would happen next.
Ramirez glanced toward Matthew's room.
"We'll keep working through what happened."
I nodded.
I wanted answers.
I wanted to know why Robert had stood beside the pool.
I wanted to know what happened between the moment I left the children's club and the moment everyone began searching.
I wanted to know why the ocean had been blamed for a disappearance nobody had witnessed.
Those questions were still waiting.
But something else had changed.
Matthew had asked to see me tomorrow.
He had hugged me.
He had called me Dad.
I walked back toward the table where the photograph remained.
I looked at the little red bucket.
For eleven years, that picture had been part of the story of losing my son.
Now I understood that it was only the last picture I had of his childhood.
It was not the end of his life.
And it did not have to be the end of ours.
I placed the photograph carefully on the table.
Then I looked toward the adjoining door.
For the first time, I was thinking about tomorrow without being afraid to imagine my son in it.
Click here to continue reading: PART 13: The Morning After Matthew Asked to See Me Again, I Discovered That Having My Son Back Did Not Mean Knowing How to Be His Father
For Eleven Years, I Believed My Son Had Disappeared Into the Ocean, Until an Old Photograph Made Me Question Everything
Part 12 of 20
