Just stood there in his torn clothes with the flute in his hand, watching the table try to rebuild itself around a lie.
Then he said, very quietly:
“Her name is Mara.”
The glass stopped halfway to the wife’s lips.
“She has your eyes.” He looked directly at the man. “People tell her that. She doesn’t like it.”
The man’s jaw tightened.
“She kept the letters you sent that first year. After you left for the city.” The boy’s voice didn’t shake. Not once. “She stopped waiting for you to come back around the time I learned to walk.”