But, of course, that’s not what happened. By design or by blood, she left and my brother did not.

I need to remember that. Above all things, I need to remember that.

Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.

There’s laughter then, rusty and broken. I recognize it immediately, and I wonder when I heard it last. I rack my brain, trying to think of any moment in the days before I left that Dominic (Dom, it whispers, his name is Dom) laughed. I remember hearing it so many times, but not the last time. I can’t think of it, no matter how hard I try.

But here it is, now, and here he is, now, with his son, who laughs along with him, bright and high-pitched in a way that complements his father’s low tones. If I’d heard that without knowing who they were, I’d still think they were the same, that they came from the same blood.

I could walk away. Now. Leave them to their laughter. Leave them happy and free because that’s what it sounds like they are. I could.

I open the gate. Walk around the side of the house.

I hear the Jeep pull away from the curb and roll down the street.

I turn the corner of the house, and Ben is a few feet away, wearing board shorts and a plain white shirt. No shoes on his little feet, his toes and knees covered in flecks of grass. His arms are over his head, and he’s opening and closing his tiny fists. Opening and closing. The smile on his face is wide and toothy.

The backyard is small, and as Ben calls, “Here, here, here,” I see Dom (always Dom) bending over, picking up a foam football up off the ground. He’s dressed like his son. Board shorts. Plain white shirt, stretched tightly over the arms and the back. No shoes. For some reason, I notice the flecks of grass on his knees. On his feet. Just like Ben.

“Good throw,” he says, and I can hear the laughter in his voice. “That was a good throw.”

“Big, huh?” Ben says. “Big throw.”

“Yeah. Big throw.”

“Football!” Ben says.

Dominic stands upright and smiles, and fuck remembering how to breathe. Fuck remembering how to do anything. Fuck it all because it hurts my heart. It hurts like I’ve been stabbed in the chest, and all I can think is four years? Somehow, I let this go on for four years?

He doesn’t see me.

Ben does, though.

“Hi, Ty!” he says and jogs toward me, pumping his little legs. There’s a moment I think he’s going to fall, but he catches himself in that way that only children seem to do. I can do nothing but open my arms as he hurtles himself at me from three feet away. There’s the moment of impact when his body strikes mine, and he wraps his arms around my neck and shoves his hands into my hair and pulls gleefully, and he just babbles, he just talks and talks and talks, and I can only make out bits and pieces like “Daddy” and “football” and “Ty, Ty, Ty.” The rest is lost to the rush of his voice. That’s okay. That’s fine. I hear what I’m supposed to. There’s such a weight to him, such a presence, that all I can do is look him in the eye and nod. That seems to suit him just fine, and on and on he goes.