Raising Jackson wasn't a fairy tale.
Jackson had this way of looking at the world. He was curious, fearless, and trusting, and that made me want to be better. He grew into a bright, stubborn kid who never took no for an answer.
At the age of six, he discovered gymnastics during summer camp.
I'll never forget his first cartwheel — more enthusiasm than technique, but he stuck the landing and threw his arms up like an Olympic champion.
"Did you see that, Dad?" he yelled across the gym.
"I saw it, buddy!" I called back, grinning.
Jackson had this way of looking at the world.
From that day on, gymnastics became his obsession. Watching him flip through the air was like watching joy come to life.
The years blurred together beautifully. First day of school. Learning to ride a bike. The broken arm resulted from attempting a couch backflip.
Jackson had a huge heart that somehow hadn't been damaged by how he'd entered the world.
At 16, he was competing at levels I barely understood. His coach used words like "state championship" and "college scholarships."
We were in a good place, laughing more than worrying, living without looking over our shoulders. Neither of us knew a storm was quietly making its way toward us.
Neither of us knew a storm
was quietly making its way
toward us.
One afternoon, we were loading his gear when my phone rang. Unknown number.
"Is this Officer Trent?" a woman's voice asked, nervous.
"Yes, who's this?"
"My name's Sarah. Sixteen years ago, you found my son in an apartment on Seventh Street."
My entire world stopped.
There are calls you answer with a badge. And then there are calls that hit your soul.
"I'm alive," she continued quickly. "The hospital saved me. I spent years getting my life together and becoming stable. I've been watching my son from a distance. I just... I need to meet him."
My hand tightened on the phone. "Why now?"
