I was driving.
It was my car. It was my idea to take the back road because the highway was jammed. I looked down to change the radio. Three seconds. Maybe four. When I looked up, the curve was already there. I overcorrected. We went into the guardrail and then into the trees.
Your mother died at the scene. Your father died on the way to the hospital. You lived, and your legs did not work the way they had that morning when you ran to the door in those yellow rain boots.
I walked away with a broken collarbone and a sentence I have been serving ever since.
I told you I was your uncle because that was true enough to put on paper. I am your father’s brother. I told the social workers I would take you because I could not let the last person I loved disappear into a system that would never know how you take your toast or which stuffed animal you needed to sleep. I told you the other driver was at fault because I could not put the truth into a child’s mouth and then ask her to let me braid her hair.
Every fair. Every YouTube tutorial. Every time I stared down a kid who looked at your chair too long—I was not only loving you. I was paying a debt I can never finish.
You deserved a father who kept his eyes on the road. You got me instead. I hope the years were still worth something.
If you hate me now, I will understand. I hated myself first.
I love you. I have always been your family. I was just never brave enough to be your truth.
—Ray
