“Vanessa.”
She turned.
“What?”
“Go stand with my mother.”
Her mouth opened.
“Preston—”
“Now.”
For the first time since I arrived, Vanessa looked genuinely unsettled.
But she didn’t leave.
Instead, she stayed close enough to hear everything.
Preston looked at me again.
“Are they mine?”
There it was.
The question I had imagined hearing a thousand times.
For years, I thought I would enjoy this moment.
I thought I would want him humiliated.
I thought I would want to make him suffer for every fever I handled alone, every school concert with one empty parent chair, every Father’s Day craft my children never knew who to give to.
But standing there beside Warren’s casket, I didn’t feel victorious.
I just felt tired.
So I told him the truth.
“Yes.”
Preston stared at me.
Vanessa laughed too quickly.
“That is impossible.”
I looked at her.
“Is it?”
“They could belong to anyone.”
Five little faces turned toward her.
Then toward Preston.
Even several relatives nearby looked uncomfortable.
Because the resemblance had become ridiculous to deny.
Vanessa crossed her arms.
“People see what they want to see.”
Preston barely seemed to hear her.
“You were pregnant when you left?”
“I didn’t know yet.”
His eyes snapped back to mine.
“When did you find out?”
“Six weeks later.”
“And you never told me?”
That question almost made me laugh.
