He’d never remarried. Never had other kids.
I hadn’t seen him in person since my twelfth birthday, a fact that hit me harder standing in the driveway than it ever had over the phone.
He put his hand on my shoulder like he’d earned it and walked me out to the driveway. There it was.
Brand new.
“Happy birthday, kid.”
Mom didn’t say a word.
Marcus stood back near the porch railing, hands shoved in his pockets.
My father was smiling straight at me, but he turned his head toward the porch when he said it.
“Now he knows who his real father is.”
Marcus looked down at the porch steps.
My father held the keys out on his open palm and waited for me to thank him.
I looked down at the keys, the little logo catching the afternoon light, and for a second I let myself imagine the version of this moment where I just took them, said thank you, drove off down the street with the windows down and let everyone sort out the rest. It would have been easier. It wouldn’t have been true.
Everything I wanted to say to him was sitting right there in my chest.
I could have said all of it in front of everyone and watched him drive home proud with it.
Instead, I turned toward the porch.
I could feel my father’s eyes on me, confused now instead of proud, the keys still resting on his open palm, forgotten.
“Marcus. Come here a second.”
I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope I’d been carrying folded in half for three long weeks, waiting for exactly this moment.
Marcus walked over slowly, glancing between me and my father, clearly unsure what was happening.
My father’s smile faltered slightly.
“What’s this?” Marcus asked, looking at the envelope.
“Open it,” I said. “Please.”
Everyone else went quiet, even my father, whatever irritation had been building in his face pausing long enough to watch too.
He slid a thumb under the flap and pulled out the papers inside. I watched his face while he read the top line.
His hands went still.
PETITION FOR ADULT ADOPTION, it said. Below that, in the space for the petitioner’s name, I’d already filled in mine.
“I talked to a lawyer three weeks ago,” I said. “Ms. Alvarado, downtown. She said once I turn eighteen in August, I can legally request this myself, no permission needed from anyone but you.”
My hands were shaking slightly too, I realized, watching his. I hadn’t expected that, hadn’t rehearsed for my own nerves showing up alongside his.
