PART 2
The stranger stopped a few feet away from me.
For one long moment, neither of us spoke.
He was older than my father by several years, though there was something familiar in the shape of his face—the same strong jaw, the same deep-set eyes, the same slight crease between his eyebrows. He wore a gray jacket despite the heat, and one hand gripped the folder against his side as if it contained something fragile.
His gaze moved from me to the paper in my hand.
“Matthew,” he said quietly. “You look just like him.”
I had heard adults say that before. Teachers had told me I had my father’s smile. Neighbors had said my eyes were exactly like his. But coming from this man, it felt different.
Maybe because he was the first person who had ever looked at me as if seeing my father in my face hurt.
