Places.
Dollar amounts.
For the first time, I wasn’t wondering what Evan had spent his money on.
I was wondering who he believed he owed.
I looked at him.
“How do you even remember this?”
Evan answered with four words that changed everything.
“Dad would’ve remembered.”
I went still.
The shop owner looked away.
I lowered the map.
“What does your father have to do with any of this?”
Evan grabbed his backpack.
“Nothing.”
This time, I stepped in front of the door.
“Evan.”
“Move, Mom.”
“No.”
His eyes filled, and that scared me more than his anger.
“Please, Mom.”
“Tell me.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
He roughly wiped his face with his sleeve, then looked at the map in my hand.
At every circle.
Every place connected to the worst year of our lives.
Finally, he whispered, “Because you’re going to tell me to stop.”
Looking at those circles again, I understood one thing.
Whatever my son had been doing every Saturday, it had never really been about a bicycle.
And somehow, it had begun with his father.
I stared at him.
“Stop what?”
Evan looked at the floor.
“Because Dad can’t.”
I stopped moving.
