But he let Kiran in.
Michael and I used to wonder why.
Maybe Harold saw something of himself in Kiran. Or perhaps he felt guilty for how he treated us and thought he could make it up to his grandson. Either way, every other weekend, he would call and ask if Kiran could visit.
There was no small talk, no greetings, just a strict instruction to “Send the boy.”
Now Harold was dead, and the storm over our past had finally settled. Or so I thought.
We were walking away from the grave when Kiran tugged at my sleeve. His voice was quiet but firm.
“Mom. I have something for you. It’s from Dad.”
I turned to him. His dark hair was damp from the rain, and the collar of his jacket was soaked. But it was the look in his eyes that caught me off guard. He looked earnest, like he’d been waiting a long time to say this.
“What is it?” I asked, brushing the water off his cheek.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, rusty key.
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