Chapter 4

I studied Jim's tired face. "What are you going to do about this?"

Jim had just reached for a cigarette, but his hand stopped. He flicked his lighter on instead, staring into the flame. "Milo didn't mean it. Let's just drop it this time."

I laughed. "Drop it? How generous of you. Your own son doesn't even rank above someone else's."

The words were harsh on purpose—I was ready to tear this open completely. But Jim didn't react with the anger I'd expected. He just studied my face carefully, then said, out of nowhere, "You've lost weight lately."

I froze for a second. I had lost a little, though barely enough to notice. He kept watching my expression and went on bluntly. "There's nothing going on between me and Elizabeth and her son. Don't read into it. I just feel sorry for them, so I've been helping her with a lawsuit. Once it's settled, I'll cut back on seeing them."

I caught the key word in that sentence—not "never see them again," but "cut back." A full year of drifting away from us, and all he had to explain it with was one flimsy word: pity. His story had more holes than I could count, but the moment my gaze landed on our son's hospital bed, my mind went conveniently blank.

"Charlie's birthday is next Tuesday," I said quietly. "Make sure you're there."

Seeing that I wasn't going to push further, Jim relaxed. He reached out and touched my face. "Got it. Eat more these days—you're thin enough to bruise."

It was the same kind of teasing he used to toss my way all the time. But I felt no urge at all to banter back. As I turned to walk away, something in Jim's eyes dimmed.

We'd both been raised soft and spoiled. Who could keep coaxing someone like that forever?

Elizabeth could.

…

On the fourth day of Jim giving Elizabeth the cold shoulder, Milo forced his way into our house.

It was Charlie's birthday. I'd spent hours arranging every detail, and nearly everyone we knew had shown up. They all noticed the cut on my son's forehead, but true to form, no one said a word about it—the same way no one had mentioned Jim's absence on this exact day the year before. It was a humiliating little secret everyone happened to know.

This time, though, Jim played the part of a real father, holding our son's hand as they cut the cake together. Everything was perfect—until Milo burst in, screaming.

"Uncle Jim! Mom took her pills, and I can't wake her up! Please, please save her!"

Milo's voice was loud and pitiful, echoing again and again through the open yard.

Jim let go of Charlie's hand instantly and strode over, his face grim. My heart hammered in my chest, and I ran to block his path.

"Send your assistant. Please. It's Charlie's birthday."

For the first time in my life, I begged him, lowering myself to plead with him to just look back—to look at our son's face.

Jim pushed my hand away without hesitation. "A life is at stake. Charlie's a good kid. He'll understand."

He pushed through the crowd of curious guests and disappeared from sight.

A chill crept up from the soles of my feet. I turned my stiff neck, inch by inch, to look at my son.

Charlie stood there among the guests, staring blankly at the direction his father had gone, the cake knife still frozen in his hand exactly where it had been.

Beside him, with a child's blunt honesty, one of his classmates piped up. "Charlie, why did your dad just leave with Milo? Is he Milo's dad too?"

The moment the words left his mouth, the boy's parent clapped a hand over his mouth.

But my son showed no anger at all. He looked over calmly, the corner of his mouth curling into a faint smile.

"Maybe," he said.