PART 2

That should have been one of the happiest moments of my life.

Leo had just driven the ball into shallow left field.

Hank was laughing beside me.

Buster was thumping his scarred tail against the dirt under the bleachers.

For one perfect moment, it felt like the nightmare was finally over.

Then I saw him.

David.

My ex-husband.

The man who had walked away from his dying son.

The man who hadn’t called in three years.

The man who chose a triathlon over a bone marrow transplant.

Standing behind the fence like he had every right to be there.

He looked older.

Not kinder.

Just older.

The expensive suit was gone.

But the confidence wasn’t.

A leather folder rested under his arm.

His eyes weren’t on me.

They weren’t on Hank.

They were locked on Leo.

And the moment Leo spotted him from first base, everything changed.

My son’s smile vanished.

His body went rigid.

The coach was waving him toward second.

Leo didn’t move.

The entire field seemed to freeze around him.

Beside me, Hank stopped laughing.

Buster slowly stood up.

The old pit bull’s ears lifted.

His eyes never left David.

I felt my stomach drop.

Because dogs remember.

And Buster had only reacted like that once before.

The day David stormed into the oncology ward and tried to stop the transplant that saved Leo’s life.

David started walking toward us.

Slowly.

Purposefully.

Like a man who had come for something.

Or someone.

Then he stopped directly in front of Hank.

Looked down at the old scarred pit bull.

And said six words that made my blood run cold.

“I’ve come to take my son.”