I held the paper up like she could see it. “Susan, did you tell your daughter to let people think she cheated on me — yes or no?”
Silence. Then a sharp exhale. “You don’t understand. This is complicated.”
“It’s not. You told her to swallow humiliation so you could keep your secret.”
“We were protecting her.”
“You were protecting yourselves. Until you apologize to Anna, and you stop treating my sons like a scandal, you don’t get access to them.”
“You don’t understand.”
Anna’s breath hitched.
“Henry — ” her mother started.
“Goodnight,” I said, and ended the call.
***
A few weeks later, the reckoning came.
We were at a church potluck — one of those noisy, crowded affairs where the gossip always simmers. I was juggling plates for the boys when a woman with a too-bright smile leaned over.
A few weeks later, the reckoning came.
“So, which one’s yours, Henry?” she asked, eyes flicking between my boys like she already knew the answer.
Anna stiffened beside me.
“Both,” I said. “Both are my sons. Both are Anna’s. We’re a family. If you can’t see that, maybe you shouldn’t be at our table.”
You could feel the hush ripple out from our end of the buffet line. Someone dropped a spoon.
Anna squeezed my hand.
“So, which one’s yours, Henry?”
The woman’s face went red. “Well, I was just making conversation.”
“Maybe try a different topic.”
We left early, the boys chattering about cake in the back seat.
Anna was silent until we got home. “Did I embarrass you? Do I embarrass you every day?”
“Not even a little,” I said, pulling her into a hug. “You carried our miracles, Anna. I don’t care what anyone says. It’s my blood flowing through their veins, too.”
“Did I embarrass you?”
