The first day, I barely spoke.

Thomas didn’t pressure me.

On the second, he asked whether I still hated pears.

I frowned. “How would you know that?”

“Your mother hated them.”

“So?”

His mouth twitched.

“So did you. Even mashed into baby food.”

I hated hearing that story.

Mostly because part of me wanted another.

On the third day, he told me Mom used to tap one finger against her glass whenever she was angry.

I looked down.

My index finger was tapping against the arm of the chair.

Thomas smiled.

I stopped immediately.

“Don’t look pleased.”

“I’m not, dear.”

“You are.”

He sighed. “Maybe a little.”

For several hours, we talked about my mother.

About how badly she sang while washing dishes.

How she’d once driven forty miles back to a gas station because she’d forgotten her purse.

How she tied my shoes twice because I always managed to kick them loose.

For years, Mom had existed in my memory as fragments.

Thomas gave me pieces I’d never had.

On the fourth day, I finally asked the question I’d been avoiding.

“Why did you leave me there?”

Thomas stared toward the window for a long time.

Then he said, “Because I was a coward.”

I waited.

He swallowed.

“After Annie died, I remarried. It was new. Fragile.”

“So?”

“I told myself foster care would be temporary.”

I looked away, clenching my fingers.

“I told myself professionals could handle what you’d been through better than I could.”

“That’s convenient.”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I chose the easier life.”

The honesty hurt more than an excuse would have.

“I thought I’d fix it later.”

“Did later never arrive?”

Thomas looked at me.

“Every year I waited made coming back harder. Then you aged out, moved away, and I lost track of you. By the time I finally started searching, you were gone.”

I laughed bitterly.

“Poor you. I didn’t die.”

“Sus…”

I stepped away.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

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