His hair was the color of a new penny.
And so was the baby’s.
“That’s my father,” my mom said. Her voice was steady and quiet. “Thomas Callahan. Copper Tom. And that’s me on his knee. 1962.” She looked across the room at Ben. “Red hair skips generations, Ben. It can hide for fifty years and pop up out of nowhere. Every grandmother in America could have told you that.”
Ben stared at the photograph.
Then he started to cry again. Not the way he’d been crying before. This was different. This was a man watching his last excuse fall away and seeing exactly what he’d done.
“She’s yours,” I said. “She’s always been yours.”
“I know,” he whispered. “I know. I knew it the moment I left that doctor’s office. But it doesn’t matter. Even if she wasn’t, I should have—”
“Stop,” I said. “Just stop.”
He stopped.
From the kitchen, Evelyn woke up. Her thin, wavering cry floated down the hallway.
Everyone turned toward the sound.
I stood up. My legs were still weak, but they held. I walked past Ben, still kneeling on the carpet. I walked past my dad in the doorway. I went into the kitchen and unbuckled my daughter from her car seat and lifted her up against my shoulder.
“Shh,” I said. “Shh, baby. Mama’s here.”
She quieted. She turned her little face into my neck and snuffled.
I walked back into the living room holding her.
Ben looked up at us from the floor. At her. He looked at her for real this time. At her squished-up face, her tiny fists, her wild copper hair.
His whole face crumpled.
“Can I…” He couldn’t even finish.
“No,” I said.
He nodded. He didn’t argue. He just nodded, over and over, with his eyes on her.
