I believed him.
Four months later, we visited a children’s home two counties away.
The director, Mrs. Palmer, led us through a bright recreation room filled with board games, puzzles, and donated books. Children watched us with the careful interest of people who had learned not to hope too quickly.
Then I noticed Owen.
OWEN LOST HIS SIGHT IN AN ACCIDENT FIVE YEARS AGO.
He sat near a window, running his fingers over raised dots in a book.
He was nine, small for his age, with dark hair falling across his forehead. A white cane rested beside his chair.
Mrs. Palmer lowered her voice.
« Owen lost his sight in an accident five years ago. His mother cared for him until she passed away. Apparently, his father placed him here rather than raise a blind child alone. If I were working here then, my goodness… »
I assumed the story had upset him, and I didn’t read anything more into it.
