“I just wanted to say thank you,” he said. “From a father to a stranger”
They were everywhere — a sea of burgundy polos, crisp white sneakers, and belt bags around their waists like a uniform of cheerful independence. Matching hair bows bobbed as they bounced between the cookie counter and the fridges, laughing, pointing, deciding. It was a sea of youthful chatter and coordinated cotton.
One girl — a bit younger, with a hopeful look — came up to me and asked if she could use my phone to call her parents. I handed it to her.
She tried her father first. No answer.
She then got through to her mother and chatted briefly, giving her happy updates about camp. I couldn’t help overhearing her say, in a matter-of-fact tone, “Please tell Tatty I tried to call him, but he didn’t answer.” The words were light, said in passing, but something about the way she said them tugged at me.
She thanked me with a grateful smile and skipped back to her bunkmates, blending back into the sea of maroon.
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