For a long moment, neither of us moved.
Then he held the blanket out to me.
Not as proof.
As something shared.
I took it, pressing it against my chest as years of grief finally found a way out. The kind of crying that does not stay contained, that shakes through your entire body.
“Sit down,” Austin said gently. “You look like you’re going to pass out.”
It was such a normal sentence that it steadied me.
We sat.
My father remained in the corner, silent and diminished, as if the truth had finally stripped him of whatever protection he thought he had.
The conversation that followed was not neat or controlled. There were too many missing years, too many questions with complicated answers.
We talked about what had happened, about what we knew, and about what we did not.
Eventually, Austin said, “We should do a DNA test, just to be sure.”
“Of course,” I agreed.
But something had already settled between us, something deeper than paperwork.
Yesterday morning, he knocked on my door again.
He held out a cup of coffee, a small, tentative smile on his face.
“‘Mom’ might be a bit much right now,” he said, “but coffee seems like a good start.”
I took the cup, my hands steady for the first time in days.
