Nancy released his hand when she saw me.
“Dad, please don’t be mad at Mom.”
“What have you told her?”
I looked at Dorothy. “What have you told her?”
“Mark,” the stranger began, “I’m sorry you had to find out about me this way.”
“Apparently, I’m the only one who didn’t know.”
He lowered his eyes.
Dorothy caught my arm.
I pulled the door open. “Leave.”
He glanced at Dorothy, and that silent exchange made me tighten my grip on the door handle.
Dorothy caught my arm. “Before you do that, you need to hear a story that started twenty-five years ago.”
“Dorothy—”
“Please.”
“Leave.”
Nancy edged toward her mother.
“You haven’t done anything wrong, sweetheart,” Dorothy told her. “Go upstairs and get ready for bed. We’ll handle this.”
“Will you come up?”
“Yes.”
Only after Nancy’s footsteps faded did I close the door.
“Does he know?”
Dorothy sat down, turning her wedding ring. I remained standing.
Twenty-five years ago…
My mother stood in my bedroom doorway holding the pregnancy test.
“Does he know?”
“Not yet. I was going to tell him tomorrow.”
I remained standing.
“Give me your phone.”
“No. Mom, please—”
“Now.”
At sixteen, I’d fallen for the boy who waited outside the diner after my shifts, doing homework beneath the streetlight. We split a sandwich on the walk home. He always handed me the bigger half.
