The day I drove him to Dayton, Marcus didn’t understand what was happening. He just sat in the passenger seat clutching that green plastic T-Rex. When we got there, a nice lady in scrubs took his hand.

He didn’t even look back at me when they closed the door.

After that, I went back to my quiet house with Brenda. The locks came off the kitchen cabinets. We went out to dinner whenever we wanted. We had friends over on weekends. It was the exact life Brenda wanted, and I let myself enjoy it.

But the guilt was always there, sitting like a heavy stone in my chest. To make myself feel better, I mailed a check to the facility every single month. I never missed a payment, not once. But I didn’t visit.

Brenda said it was better that way. “If you go, it will only confuse him,” she told me. “Let him settle in.”

So I let myself believe her. It was easier that way, go figure.

Every year on his birthday, I sent a card with some money inside. And every year, the envelope came back in the mail. It was always opened, but there was never a note inside. Just the empty envelope returned to sender. I figured Marcus didn’t want anything to do with me, and honestly, I couldn’t blame him.

The years went by so fast. You don’t realize how quickly time slips away until you’re looking at a gray-haired man in the mirror. Brenda and I grew older. We had a comfortable life, but we never talked about Marcus. His name was like a ghost in our house.

Then, last Tuesday, the phone rang. It was a woman named Sarah from the Dayton facility.

“Mr. Vance?” she said. “We’ve been trying to reach you. The state is cutting our funding, and we are closing this branch at the end of the month.”

My throat went dry. “Closing?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “The other residents are being moved, but Marcus has a private contract. We need family to come pick him up. He needs to go home with you.”

When I hung up, my hands were sweating. I walked into the living room and told Brenda what had happened.

She stared at me like I had lost my mind. “You can’t bring him here, Arthur,” she said. “We are in our sixties. We can’t handle him now.”

“He’s my son, Brenda,” I said.

“And I am your wife,” she said. “We made a choice fifteen years ago. You can’t just undo it.”

But I knew I couldn’t run anymore. I got into my Buick and drove the two hours to Dayton.

And that brings me back to the parking lot. Sitting there, watching my thirty-year-old son rock back and forth through the window. I wanted to put the car in reverse and drive away. I was terrified. What if he hated me? What if he didn’t even know who I was?