I found Simon near the brick fountain, surrounded by friends.
He excused himself the moment he saw me.
Then he hugged me so tightly I nearly lost my balance.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I whispered.
“Yes,” he said against my shoulder. “I did.”
I pulled back and touched his face the way I had when he was little and feverish. “Are you okay?”
He nodded, though his eyes were bright. “Better than I thought I’d be.”
“Simon.”
Denise’s voice came from behind us.
His shoulders stiffened, but he did not step away from me.
Denise approached slowly now, without the triumphant sway she had entered with. Jonathan stayed several feet behind her, holding the cake box awkwardly in both hands. My parents followed, Mom pale and Dad frowning like someone had broken a rule he had never bothered to explain.
Denise looked at Simon first.
“That speech was hurtful,” she said.
Simon’s face remained calm. “It was true.”
“I am your mother.”
“You gave birth to me,” he replied gently. “That matters. But it’s not the whole story.”
Her mouth tightened. “You don’t understand what I went through.”
“No,” Simon said. “Because no one told me. You came for pictures and holidays. You brought shoes that didn’t fit and toys I was too old for. You called me your baby online, then left before bedtime.”
I saw Denise flinch.
For years, I had imagined what I would say if this moment ever came. I had rehearsed speeches while washing dishes, while folding laundry, while sitting in dark hospital rooms during Simon’s asthma attacks. But standing there, I found I had no desire to wound her.
I was simply tired.
“Denise,” I said, “why today?”
She turned to me. “Because he’s grown now. Because he should know where he came from.”