That summer, we went back to Ohio again.
This time, we did not stay in a motel.
We stayed in my old room, repainted pale green by my mother, with new curtains and a shelf Leo immediately filled with rocks, wires, and half-finished inventions.
One evening, my father and Leo hung the birdhouse they had finally completed from the maple tree in the front yard. It was crooked, bright red, and far too large for any reasonable bird.
“It’s more of a bird mansion,” I said.
Leo grinned. “Birds deserve options.”
My father laughed.
My mother stood beside me on the porch.
After a while, she said, “I used to think the worst thing that could happen was everyone knowing the truth.”
I looked at her.
“What do you think now?”
She watched Daniel pull into the driveway, waving through the windshield.
“I think the worst thing was living without it.”
