I grew up hoping Leon would come back some day, or that he would at least call or send a letter. Nothing. It wasn’t until I was a teenager myself that there was any sign of him at all, and it came in the most unlikely place.
Dad and Mama were watching the news. The reporters talked about wars and murders and other things that disgusted me. I was waiting for the inevitable happy story they tack on at the end of news shows so people don’t feel too depressed about the state of the world.
The last story was about the New York Pride March. Dad snorted in contempt and reached for the remote. “Freaks,” he muttered.