Tyler stared at Vanessa.
Vanessa stared at him.
And I stared at the photograph trembling between her fingers.
Two newborn babies.
Two tiny faces wrapped in matching striped hospital blankets.
ELLIOT.
MASON.
My son stood beside me with one hand gripping the strap of his backpack.
He was seven years old.
He still slept with the hallway light on after scary movies.
He believed Tyler could land an airplane in a thunderstorm because, in Mason’s words, “Dad can probably see through clouds.”
And now three adults were standing over him with a photograph suggesting that everything he knew about his family might be wrong.
I moved first.
I crouched in front of Mason.
“Hey.”
His eyes found mine.
“Mom?”
I took both his hands.
“We’re going to step somewhere quiet.”
His lower lip moved slightly.
“Did Dad lie?”
Behind him, Tyler made a sound.
“Claire—”
I stood.
I didn’t raise my voice.
