My son kept calling our new neighbor “the apology man,” and at first, I thought it was one of those odd little names kids invent when adults confuse them.
Then I heard Joseph behind the fence.
“I’m sorry, buddy,” he whispered. “I should’ve answered. I’m so sorry.”
I moved closer before I could talk myself out of it.
Through a narrow gap in the cold wooden fence, I saw him kneeling in the dirt with both hands wrapped around the handlebars of a tiny red bicycle. It had training wheels, chipped paint, and a faded blue helmet beside it.
“I’m sorry, buddy.”