Chapter 8
We left the mansion after midnight.
Angelo sent a car, but I refused it.
I carried Luke’s backpack myself.
Carlo walked us to my old sedan.
His cheek was swollen.
“I should have found you,” he said.
“You were afraid,” I said.
He lowered his head.
“Yes.”
I wanted to be angry.
But I knew fear.
Fear had raised my son beside me.
Fear had slept on the floor of cheap apartments.
Fear had counted grocery money at midnight.
I opened the back door for Luke.
He climbed in and buckled himself.
Angelo followed us down the drive.
“Grace.”
I stopped.
The cold air smelled like rain.
He stood a few feet away, not daring to come closer.
“I looked for you.”
My chest tightened.
“For how long?”
His answer came slow.
“Years.”
I wanted to believe him.
That was the dangerous part.
“Then why did you stop?”
He swallowed.
“My mother showed me a signed statement. She said you took money and left. She said you ended the pregnancy.”
I closed my eyes.
The cruelty of it still found new ways to hurt me.
“I never signed anything.”
“I know that now.”
“No,” I said. “You know there is doubt now. That is not the same.”
He flinched.
Good.
Some pain belonged to him.
“I want to know him,” he said.
I looked back at Luke through the car window.
He was watching us.
“He is not a missing heir,” I said. “He is a child. My child.”
Angelo nodded.
“I understand.”
“You don’t. But maybe you can learn.”
For the first time, his mouth trembled.
“I will.”
I got into the car.
As I drove away, the mansion lights shrank in the mirror.
Luke whispered from the back seat, “Is he my dad?”
My hands tightened on the wheel.
“I think so,” I said.
He was quiet.
Then he asked, “Did he want me?”
May you like
I almost broke.
“I think someone made sure he never got the chance.”
