“Angela…” he breathed.

I walked into his apartment without saying a word, brushing past him, but careful not to touch him. The apartment was sparsely furnished. He had obviously just moved in as there were boxes lying around half-opened.

I pulled up a chair in front of his only sofa and gestured for him to sit down. He shuffled over to the sofa, belting his robe tighter. I couldn’t help noticing how old he looked. Was eight years really that long a time? It didn’t seem so to me.

But I sometimes still felt the helplessness of the child I’d been. I felt stirrings of it now, seeing how vulnerable he looked as he sat there in his robe and matching slippers. Almost like a child himself.

“Your mother – she, she…”

“I already know. Mrs. Johnson told me.” My words were short, precise as knives.

“Ah. So that’s how you found me.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t have much money, if that’s what you’re after.”

“I don’t want your money.”

“What do you want from me, Angela?”

He looked so defeated then. I almost wavered.