His Son, Her Secret
I’d retyped that message earlier this morning with a slightly shaking thumb, sending it after deleting and rewriting it three times.
I didn’t even have the right words yet. To explain the guilt, the anger, or the heavy mix of feelings clumping like wet sand in my chest.
Next to Max, Mischa sat with her elbows on the table, wearing a shark t-shirt and blue shorts, staring blankly out the big window that looked out over the beach. “I want to go swimming,”
Max pointed Megatron right at her face. “Look first! His eyes light up!”
“Swimming’s more important,” Mischa said flatly. “Megatron can’t dive.”
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