“What is this?” she whispered.
The old man stepped closer, tears filling his eyes.
“I never wanted this secret to come out.”
The boy looked between them, confused.
“What secret?”
The man swallowed hard.
Then he turned the photograph around.
On the back was a date.
Eight years ago.
The day the boy had disappeared.
The woman’s legs nearly gave out.
“No…”
The old man began to cry.
“I was the driver that day.”
The crowd gasped.
“I caused the accident.”
The woman’s heart stopped.
The accident that had taken her husband.
The accident that had stolen her son.
The man continued.
“When I found him alive, I was terrified. I thought I would go to prison. So I ran.”
The boy’s eyes widened.
“I took him away,” the old man sobbed. “I raised him as my own grandson. But before I could tell him the truth… I got sick.”
The woman could barely breathe.
Eight years.
Eight years of pain.
Eight years of searching.
Gone because of one terrible decision.
The boy looked at the old man who had raised him.
Then at the mother who had never stopped loving him.
Tears rolled down his cheeks.
“You both lost me,” he whispered.
The old man nodded through his tears.
“I know.”
For a moment nobody moved.
Then the boy stepped forward.
He took his mother’s hand.
And with his other hand, he grabbed the old man’s trembling fingers.
“We’ve already lost eight years,” he said. “I’m not losing either of you.”
The woman broke down crying.
The old man covered his face.
And beneath the glowing summer fountains, three broken hearts finally began to heal.
