All I wanted was a quiet morning by the lake—just me, my half-broken chair, and my old tackle box. Ten minutes in, a kid in a Dragon Ball shirt and oversized glasses said, “You’re not gonna catch anything with that bait.” He looked about ten, maybe younger.
“Fishing expert, are you?” I asked. He shrugged. “My grandpa used to bring me. I know where they hide.” He pointed to a spot near the reeds, and sure enough, I got a bite.
He didn’t ask to fish. Just sat beside me, talking. Told me his mom worked double shifts, and he mostly wandered around here while staying at his grandma’s. Said books made him feel less alone.
I asked gently about his father. “Never met him,” he said. “Mom says he’s not worth knowing. But I wonder… maybe he’s just lost.”
His honesty hit me hard. He didn’t want comfort—just to be heard. His name was Max, and he loved science and adventure books.
Later, a rusty car pulled up. Max froze. A tired woman stepped out—his mom. Their eyes met, and everything around us fell still. That look said everything. Love, exhaustion, apology—and maybe, the beginning of understanding.
