“No,” I said. “I mean it.”
That made him turn.
The moment he saw my face, the color drained from his.
“What?” I asked.
He set the mug down too quickly. Tea spilled over the rim, splashing onto his hand. He did not react.
“You’re imagining things,” he said. “Don’t start this again.”
I went still. “Again?”
His hands trembled.
“Why are you shaking?” I asked.
“Because I don’t want you digging up old pain,” he said.
The answer did not sit right. It settled somewhere deep and heavy, like a warning I could not yet interpret.
Two days later, I understood why.
He had gone next door without telling me. He later admitted that he recognized the name on a package left by the porch, the name of the couple who had adopted my child. He had buried it for years, but not deeply enough to forget.
Three days after the moving truck arrived, Austin knocked on my door.
“I made too much coffee,” he said with a grin. “And my kitchen still looks like a storage unit. Want to come over?”
I should have said no.
Instead, I said yes.
When I told my father, he responded too quickly. “You don’t need to go.”
“Why?” I asked.
He picked at the arm of his chair. “No reason.”
