Chapter 5
The photograph confirmed what my heart already knew.
Theo at two.
Theo at seven.
Same eyes.
Same left eyebrow lifting slightly higher when frightened.
Same small notch near his ear from a fall as a toddler.
Clara placed both photographs side by side.
Then quietly left me alone.
Theo sat across the room eating soup.
Slowly.
He stopped after four bites.
Wrapped bread in a napkin.
Put it in his pocket.
I pretended not to notice for thirty seconds.
Then asked:
“Saving it?”
His face went pale.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
He immediately pulled the bread out.
“I didn’t steal.”
My chest hurt.
“I know.”
“I was gonna eat later.”
“You can.”
He stared.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
He looked at the soup.
“Can I take that too?”
“As much as you want.”
His shoulders lowered slightly.
One inch.
Maybe less.
That counted.
Then he asked:
“Are you really my mom?”
I could have said yes immediately.
Instead:
“I believe I am.”
He frowned.
“Believe?”
“I want to prove everything without asking you to trust a stranger just because adults tell you to.”
He studied me.
Children who have been lied to deserve uncertainty spoken honestly.
“Grandma says my mom didn’t want me.”
There it was.
I felt the sentence tear through something old.
“What else?”
“That she picked power.”
I looked at my son.
“No.”
My voice shook for the first time.
“I looked for you every day.”
He watched closely.
“Every day?”
“For a long time.”
“Then stopped?”
Honest question.
“Yes.”
His face fell.
I continued.
“Because they convinced me you were dead.”
He looked toward the hallway.
Then back at me.
“They lie lots.”
Simple.
May you like
Seven years old.
Already the best judge in the room.
