teenage boy.
I recognized him.
Quiet.
Polite.
He had been inside our house twice while Teagan was pregnant.
I barely remembered speaking to him.
A worn baseball glove was tucked beneath his arm.
Then I unfolded the letter.
Mom,
I know you think I won’t tell you because I don’t trust you.
That isn’t why.
He knows about the baby.
I stopped.
My hands began shaking.
Teagan continued.
He wanted to stay. But wanting something and being ready for it aren’t the same thing.
His family keeps telling him this