I couldn’t stop imagining him betraying Mom.
I studied them differently when we visited.
If Dad touched her shoulder, I wondered whether she remembered.
If they laughed together, I wondered how she’d found a way back to that laughter.
One afternoon, Mom caught me watching them.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She smiled.
“You’ve been looking at your father like you’re trying to solve a murder.”
My stomach tightened.
Did she really know?
Dad had said she did.
I almost asked her.
Something stopped me.
Maybe embarrassment.
Maybe loyalty to Dad, even though I was angry with him.
Maybe fear of hearing details I could never forget.
So I said nothing.
And Dad said nothing more either.
He simply kept reminding me:
“One thing at a time.”
At the time, I thought it was cowardly advice.
Later, I understood what he was really doing.
Part 6 — The Day My Son Arrived
My contractions started at 2:17 in the morning.
