Chapter 16
A year after the service-hall incident, Milo asked about the van.
Not dramatically.
We were packing for a weekend trip.
Using the same three suitcases.
He saw the old scratch where the strap buckle had rubbed the handle.
“Dad.”
“Yes?”
“Bad van?”
I stopped.
“Yes.”
“Miranda van?”
“She helped arrange it.”
He nodded.
Then:
“This van?”
“No.”
“Our car.”
“With you?”
“Yes.”
“Names?”
I smiled.
“What’s your name?”
“Milo Ferrante.”
“What if you wanted another one someday?”
He looked horrified.
“No.”
Fair.
Nora shouted from the next room:
“I’m Nora!”
Tess screamed:
“I TESS!”
Identity crisis resolved.
We traveled to Vermont.
Cecilia invited us.
The children packed the suitcases themselves.
Mostly toys.
Almost no useful clothes.
My mistake for granting autonomy without supervision.
At her house, Cecilia saw the cases.
She knew immediately.
“You kept them?”
“We reclaimed them.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Big word for luggage.”
I laughed.
Milo rolled his suitcase across the porch.
No strap around his wrist.
No fake tag.
No adult pulling faster than his legs could follow.
He stopped whenever he wanted.
That mattered enough without explaining it.
That evening Grace asked me whether I still thought of Vincent as family.
“Yes.”
She seemed surprised.
“After everything?”
“Family describes relationship.”
I looked toward the kids.
“It doesn’t guarantee access.”
Cecilia smiled.
That sentence belonged to her world now too.
Vincent remained alive.
Older.
Outside command.
He sent birthday cards.
The children did not receive them automatically.
I asked.
Sometimes Milo said yes.
Nora usually no.
Tess liked stickers and had no political framework.
Messy.
May you like
Real.
Much better than rules pretending blood solves everything.
