CHAPTER 13: THE SEVENTY-TWO
In late autumn, letters began arriving at the Vance mailbox. They bore no return addresses, only simple postmarks from small towns across Oregon, Texas, Maine, and Ohio.
Toby sat on the porch swing, opening them one by one.
*“Thank you for giving me my childhood back,”* one read.
*“Because of you, I don’t have to hide who I am anymore,”* wrote another.
Raymond brought out two steaming mugs of apple cider, sitting beside his adopted son as the golden maple leaves drifted onto the lawn.
"Are you happy, Toby?" Raymond asked quietly.
May you like
Toby leaned his head against Raymond’s shoulder, feeling the gentle autumn breeze against his face. "For the first time, Dad, I don't have to calculate the next five minutes. I can just live this one."
---
