When Dad Came Back Read Online Free

surprised. Were all these women seeking restraining orders against lousy husbands, exes, or boyfriends? Gabe's blood boiled at the thought of men who hurt women. He promised himself that he would be a good man when he grew up.
    â€œI'll wait here,” his mother said. She instructed him to see how far the line went around the corner.
    Gabe wove his way around the corner, muttering, “Excuse me, excuse me.” He counted sixteen women. Most were mothers with babies in strollers or in their arms, and one was an older woman with a walker—the tennis balls attached to its feet were dirty and chewed up from the clawing about on sidewalks.
    Gabe recognized Linda Ramirez, a girl from school. When she turned, he could see she was biting a fingernail. He forced himself to look away. He didn't want to embarrass her, or himself.
    When he returned, his mother was rummaging through her purse. She brought out a handful of papers: old bills, receipts, coupons, used Kleenex, and gum wrappers.
    â€œMom, the line's really long,” he told her. In truth, he didn't want his mother to file a restraining order against his dad. Sure, he was a deadbeat, but what had he done except parade his sadness in front of his son? He wanted to talk to his dad first. If the man proved to still be a scoundrel, Gabe would wake up early and be first in line at City Hall.
    â€œThis is ridiculous!” she bawled. “I can't wait. I have to get to work!”
    They rode down the elevator in silence. When the doors opened with a sigh, Gabe was surprised to see a crowd trying to enter. None of the people pushing their way into the elevator seemed happy. One of them had bruises around her eyes—from lack of sleep, he hoped, and not from being slapped around.
    His mother drove off in their secondhand Toyota, and Gabe, with time to kick around and a dollar bill his mother had pressed into his hand for a soda, started in the direction of the library. He became immediately uneasy when he saw three homeys eyeing him like vultures. He recognized one of them—Frankie Torres. He used to hang with Frankie at Romain Playground when they were little. They used to play with squirt guns, shooting each other at close range and screaming with joy because the guns were filled with Kool-Aid. Gabe supposed Frankie would be packing something more deadly than a squirt gun now.
    Instinct told Gabe to retreat. He turned on the squeaky heels of his athletic shoes and headed back to City Hall. There, in the shadows of two beefy cops posted at the door, he wasted a few minutes of life by standing still, time enough for Frankie and crew to move on.
    Then Gabe came out of hiding and hurried off to the library. It was nine fifty, and the glass doors wouldn't open until ten. The morning was cloudless, the flags already hoisted but barely rippling from the slight breeze. Along with others—all homeless people, it seemed—Gabe lurked in the shade of the building. It was not yet midday, and already Gabe was flapping the front of his T-shirt as he struggled to cool himself off. He considered splurging on a soda, but common sense told him to delay the purchase until it was at least noon. He could always drink water from the library fountain.
    Then he heard, “Son! Gabe!”
    Approaching over the lawn, which was wet from an earlier dousing by the sprinklers, was his dad. He held a hand up to his forehead to shade his eyes. “I'm not your son,” Gabe muttered, backpedaling with short steps. He realized that he wasn't making sense—the man with wet shoes was his dad. What was wrong with his dad calling him son?
    His dad closed the distance between them. He was now leaving a trail of wet shoe prints on the cement in front of the library.
    â€œGabe, please don't be like that.”
    â€œLike what?” Gabe snapped. “Like I don't see you for four years and then you show up as a bum?”
    When his dad lowered his face, a tear, an errant