“He knows,” I said.
“No, he knows what you told him.”
Simon’s jaw tightened. “Mom never lied about you.”
Denise blinked at the word.
Mom.
It landed between us, small and final.
Jonathan cleared his throat. “Denise, maybe this is a conversation for another time.”
She ignored him. “You kept him from me.”
I stared at her, stunned. “You had my address for nineteen years.”
“You made me feel unwelcome.”
“You left him in my arms.”
Mom stepped forward. “Girls, please. Not here.”
Something inside me went quiet.
Not weak. Not frightened. Quiet.
“Not here?” I repeated. “Where, then? The hospital when he had pneumonia and Denise didn’t answer? The school office when they asked for a parent signature and you told me not to make trouble? The kitchen table when I sold my necklace to pay his science camp fee?”
Dad looked away.
Simon’s hand found mine.
Denise’s eyes filled with tears, but I could not tell whether they came from shame, anger, or surprise that the story had not gone as she expected.
“I was young,” she said.
“So was I,” I answered.
For the first time, she had no reply.
Jonathan set the cake carefully on the fountain ledge. The icing had smeared against the lid.
“I think,” he said carefully, “there are things I haven’t been told.”