PART 2: THE HOUSE AT THE END OF THE STREET
I still don’t entirely know why.
Something inside me simply needed to know where he went.
I kept far enough back that he wouldn’t notice me.
At least, I hoped he wouldn’t.
He crossed the road outside the cemetery and carried on along the sidewalk.
I expected him to wander.
He didn’t.
He moved with complete purpose.
He never hesitated at a turn.
He cut through streets I didn’t recognize, passed a shuttered gas station, and continued down a narrow alley behind a row of houses I’d never had any reason to visit.
More than once, I thought about turning back.
“This is ridiculous,” I muttered.
I was a grown woman following a stray dog through unfamiliar streets on a Sunday afternoon.
But every time I slowed, the dog kept going.
There was something in the certainty of his steps that kept drawing me forward.
The neighborhood slowly changed.
The lawns grew smaller.
Paint peeled from porch railings.
Several cars sat under faded covers.
A bicycle with no front wheel leaned against one fence.
The dog crossed another street without even slowing.
I hurried after him.
“Where are you going?” I whispered.
Of course, he didn’t answer.
Nearly 20 minutes later, he stopped in front of a small, run-down house at the very end of a dead-end street.
He scratched twice at the front door.
Then he sat and waited.
I stopped near the sidewalk.
My heart had started racing.
The house was narrow and weathered.
One shutter hung crooked.
The porch steps were cracked along the edges.
Yet the dog looked completely at ease.
Almost as if he had done this many times before.
For a moment, I nearly walked away.
Whatever mystery I had built in my mind suddenly felt intrusive.
Maybe the dog belonged to an elderly person.
Maybe someone just let him roam.
Maybe there was nothing unusual about any of it.
Then I heard movement inside.
A floorboard creaked.
The dog stood.
My stomach tightened for reasons I couldn’t explain.
The door slowly opened a few inches.
And I stopped walking.
Standing in the doorway was someone I never, in a hundred years, expected to see.
“Ms. Diane?”
I stared at her.
It took several seconds before I recognized her face.
“Sadie?”
Her eyes widened.
Sadie had dated Caleb during his final year of high school.
She had been 17.
Caleb had been 18.
For almost a year, she had been everywhere.
At our dinner table.
On the couch during movie nights.
Sitting beside Caleb on the back steps while they whispered about whatever teenagers believed adults could never understand.
Then they broke up.
Caleb barely talked about it.
A few months later, Sadie vanished from our lives completely.
Now she stood in front of me.
She was three years older than when I’d last seen her, thinner than I remembered, with her dark hair loosely tied back.
The dog pushed past her legs and walked inside.
Sadie looked from him to me.
“What are you doing here?”
I swallowed.
“I followed your dog.”
Her expression shifted.
She glanced toward the house.
Then back at me.
“You followed Jasper?”
“Is that his name?”
She nodded slowly.
I almost laughed from sheer confusion.
“He’s been sitting at Caleb’s grave.”
Sadie’s face went pale.
For several seconds, she said nothing.
Then she opened the door wider.
“You should come inside.”
Every instinct told me something was wrong.
Still, I stepped onto the porch.
The front room was small but clean.
A worn couch sat against one wall.
Children’s books were stacked in a plastic crate near the television.
I noticed them immediately.
Then I saw the tiny blue sneakers near the hallway.
My chest tightened.
“Do you have a child?”
Sadie froze.
Jasper walked toward the hallway and disappeared around the corner.
Before she could answer, a small voice called from another room.
“Mommy?”
I looked at Sadie.
She closed her eyes briefly.
Then a little boy appeared around the corner.
He looked about three years old.
He wore dinosaur pajamas even though it was the middle of the afternoon.
His brown hair stuck up on one side.
I forgot how to breathe.
There was something about his face.
Something painfully familiar.
His eyes.
The shape of his mouth.
The way one eyebrow sat slightly higher than the other.
Caleb used to make that exact expression whenever he was confused.
The boy pointed at me.
“Who’s that?”
Sadie’s voice shook.
“This is Diane.”
The little boy smiled.
“Hi.”
I couldn’t answer.
I looked at Sadie.
“No.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Diane.”
“No.”
“I wanted to tell you.”
My hands began to tremble.
“Tell me what?”
She looked at the little boy.
“Beau, sweetheart, can you go play with Jasper?”
He hesitated.
“Can I have crackers?”
“Yes.”
“Two?”
Sadie managed a weak smile.
“Two.”
He disappeared toward the kitchen, with Jasper close behind him.
I waited until he was gone.
Then I turned to Sadie.
“Tell me.”
Sadie slowly sat down.
I stayed on my feet.
“Beau is Caleb’s son.”
