“You’re using big words because you’re scared.”
“No. I’m using accurate ones because you should be.”
She laughed then, low and bitter.
“You don’t even know his real name.”
I looked at the sealed court record.
“Neither does he, apparently.”
The silence that followed told me I had finally struck bone.
When Linda spoke again, her voice had changed completely. It became old. Tired. Almost stripped of performance.
“He was supposed to have a better life.”
“By stealing a dead child’s identity?”
“He was a child too.”
“And now?”
My mother-in-law shaved my head while I slept on the very night the United States Army promoted me into one of the most important commands of my career.
“Now he is all I have left.”
There it was. Not remorse. Not apology. Possession.
Ryan was not a son to her. He was an artifact. A life she had reshaped to fill a grave.
Related Posts
