His lip trembled.
“But I’m right here,” he whispered. “Why are you saying that?”
He stepped inside like he’d done it a thousand times. The movement was so natural it made my skin crawl.
Everything in me screamed that this was wrong.
But under that, something raw and desperate whispered, “Take him. Don’t ask.”
I swallowed it back.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Where have you been, Evan?” I asked.
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He blinked. “Evan.”
Same name as my son.
“What’s your daddy’s name?” I asked.
“Daddy’s Lucas,” he said quietly.
Lucas. My husband. The man who died six months after our son. Heart attack on the bathroom floor.
I felt dizzy.
“Where have you been, Evan?” I asked.
His small fingers clutched at my sleeve.
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His eyes filled with tears.
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