A few weeks later, the reckoning came.
We were at a church potluck — one of those noisy, crowded affairs where the gossip always simmers. I was juggling plates for the boys when a woman with a too-bright smile leaned over.
A few weeks later, the reckoning came.
“So, which one’s yours, Henry?” she asked, eyes flicking between my boys like she already knew the answer.
Anna stiffened beside me.
“Both,” I said. “Both are my sons. Both are Anna’s. We’re a family. If you can’t see that, maybe you shouldn’t be at our table.”
You could feel the hush ripple out from our end of the buffet line. Someone dropped a spoon.
Anna squeezed my hand.
“So, which one’s yours, Henry?”
