I took him inside because if I stayed in that driveway another ten seconds, I would have said something none of us could take back. He curled against me on the couch, still holding that single blond ringlet so tightly it left a red half-moon in his palm. He cried until he hiccupped. Then he cried some more.
When Mark came home and saw our son, he stopped so abruptly his keys slipped out of his hand. He crossed the room, knelt on the rug, and looked at Leo’s head the way a person looks at damage after a storm. Very gently, he ran his fingers over the hacked-off patches.
Leo threw himself into Mark’s chest.
“Dad,” he sobbed, “why did Grandma cut my promise?”
Mark’s face changed when he heard those words. It didn’t twist or harden. It emptied out. He looked at me once, then wrapped both arms around Leo and held him close.
