My mother fell in love with a bank robber during a siege. They made plans to escape together, but when the moment came the police were too swift. They rescued my mother, and the robber got away. She was the only one to see him without his mask, but she wouldn’t say a word. Nine months later, I was born.
I try not to let it affect me, but it’s hard sometimes. Every time they show footage of a heist on television I find myself squinting at the screen. Examining the way they move, the way they brandish guns, the way they stuff money into burlap sacks. Once or twice I catch a hint of myself in one of them, and my heart leaps. Out there, somewhere, my father’s still running.