At my own graduation, I’d crossed the football field with a diploma in one hand and baby Leo on my hip. My mother, Lucy, had cried. My father, Ted, had looked like he wanted to hunt somebody.
So yes, Leo’s graduation had done something to me.
He’d grown into a wonderful young man, smart, kind, and funny when I needed it most. He was the kind of son who noticed when I was tired and quietly did the dishes before I could ask.
Leo’s graduation had done something to me.
Lately, though, he’d been asking more about Andrew.
I’d always told him the truth as I understood it. I got pregnant at seventeen, when Andrew and I were wrapped up in first love. When I told him, he smiled and nodded, promising we’d figure it out together.
The next day, he disappeared. He never came back to school. When I ran to his house that afternoon, there was a “FOR SALE” sign in the yard, and the
family
was gone.
That was the story I’d lived with for eighteen years.
He’d been asking more about Andrew.
***
Now, Leo looked down at the table. “I need you to not… be mad at me.”
“Honey, I’m not promising anything until I know the truth.”
He swallowed. “I took one of those DNA tests.”
For a moment, I just stared at him.
“You did what?”
“I know.” He rushed the words out. “I should’ve told you. I just… wanted to find him. Or somebody connected to him. Maybe a cousin or an aunt, anyone who could tell me why he left.”
“You did what?”
The hurt came fast, not because my son wanted answers, but because he deserved them, and he’d gone looking alone.
“Leo,” I said softly.
