I did not blame Madeline.
I did not blame Richard.
I told them the part that belonged to me.
I had known Claire was pregnant.
I had still left.
That was my responsibility.
I mailed the letters.
Nothing happened.
Three weeks passed.
Then four.
Then six.
On a rainy Thursday afternoon, my assistant entered my office.
“There’s someone downstairs.”
“Who?”
She looked nervous.
“Noah Bennett.”
I stood so quickly my chair struck the wall.
“Send him up.”
“No.”
I stopped.
“He said you need to come down.”
I almost smiled.
“Of course.”
I went downstairs.
Noah was waiting in the lobby.
He wore a gray hoodie.
No medal.
No competition jacket.
Just a thirteen-year-old boy.
My son.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
He shoved his hands into his pockets.
“Can we walk?”
“Yes.”
We walked four blocks without speaking.
Finally, Noah stopped beside a small park.
“I read your letter.”
“Thank you.”
“That doesn’t mean I forgive you.”
“I know.”
“I’m still angry.”
“You should be.”
He looked annoyed.
“Stop agreeing with everything.”
I almost laughed.
“Sorry.”
He sat on a bench.
I sat beside him.
“You really didn’t know?”
“No.”
He studied my face.
“But Mom told you she was pregnant.”
