She began crying.
“I should’ve told him about those Saturdays anyway.”
I looked toward our bedroom.
“There’s something carved underneath the airplane,” she said.
I found the towel.
Unwrapped it.
The little plane had two finished wings.
Smooth edges.
A polished wooden tail.
I turned it over.
Four words.
“FOR JEREMY. ALWAYS DAD.”
I sat on the floor and cried.
That afternoon, I carried the airplane when we visited Jeremy.
He smiled at the stroller.
Then saw what I was holding.
“Why did you bring that?”
“Your father finished it.”
His smile vanished.
“No.”
“After you stopped knocking.”
He shook his head.
I placed the airplane in his hands.
“Mom said he asked about you every Saturday.”
Jeremy stared.
“Even after you stopped coming.”
“What?”
“He thought you didn’t want to see him anymore.”
Jeremy looked down.
I turned the airplane over.
