I sat down on the porch step.
Liam moved toward me.
I raised one hand.
“Don’t.”
He stopped immediately.
I pressed my fingers against my lips.
Memories came too quickly.
Liam at eight years old, standing by the fence while Richard watched him through the kitchen window.
Liam at twelve, helping me carry grocery bags.
Richard snapping, “He has his own house.”
Liam at fifteen, repairing the loose gate hinge.
Richard refusing to thank him.
Liam at seventeen, eating pizza with me while Richard disappeared into the bedroom.
Every strange look.
Every unnecessary complaint.
Every time Richard seemed irritated simply because Liam existed.
I had thought my husband disliked children.
He didn’t.
He disliked one child.
His child.
My stomach twisted.
“Why?”
Liam sat on the opposite end of the step.
“Why what?”
“Why would he treat you like that?”
“I spent twenty years asking myself the same thing.”
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
The kind of calm people develop after spending years thinking about something.
I looked at him.
“When did you find out?”
“Not when I was a kid.”
“Then when?”
“After college.”
I frowned.
“But you disappeared before college.”
