“No,” I said.
This time, Marcus spoke before his mother could. “Kesha’s right.”
Everyone turned to him.
He looked exhausted. “This is too much for them. For all of us.”
I was surprised enough to study him.
He met my eyes. “But may I ask for time? Not rights. Not demands. Just time to earn whatever you’re willing to allow.”
The old Marcus would have argued. He would have insisted that being their father gave him a place. He would have cared more about how things appeared than what they required. This Marcus looked like a man standing in the wreckage of himself, finally noticing the walls had fallen.
“I won’t make promises today,” I said.
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t. But maybe someday you will.”
He accepted that with a nod.
As I helped the children gather their coats, Patricia disappeared upstairs. When she returned, she held a small white envelope, yellowed at the edges. My name was written across the front in my own handwriting from eight years ago.
