Celine leaned forward.
“I waited months, Margaret. I kept telling myself he’d show up eventually. Even after the baby came, part of me still thought maybe he’d finally grow up and walk back through my door.”
I could barely get a breath out.
“He didn’t abandon you.”
Her face tightened.
“Please don’t defend him to me.”
“I’m not.”
“Celine.”
She stopped.
I forced the words out.
“Evan died.”
The anger drained from her face instantly.
“What?”
“His heart gave out. It happened fast, and no one saw it coming.”
She stared at me, unmoving.
“No.”
“He died before your son was born, Celine.”
Her lips parted.
“No. No, he didn’t leave me. He died?”
The silence between us stretched until it felt unbearable.
She shook her head once, then again, tears welling.
“All these years… I hated him.”
I reached across the table and took her hand.
“And I spent twenty-six years thinking I knew everything important about my own son.”
Celine looked down at my hand, then slowly curled her fingers around it.
After a long moment she whispered, “Our son knows about him. About Evan, I mean.”
My heart lurched.
“What did you tell him?”
“That his father left us. That’s all I ever knew how to say.”
She closed her eyes.
I squeezed her hand tighter.
“We were both wrong about him, then.”
Celine looked at me for a long moment. Then she reached for her phone, scrolling with trembling fingers.
