The refrigerator hummed.
A dog collar jingled somewhere in the kitchen.
A child opened a cabinet.
I heard all of it.
Yet I could barely understand what the woman sitting five feet away from me had just said.
“You knew for three years?”
“I didn’t know before the accident.”
“But you knew afterward.”
“Yes.”
“And you never told me?”
Her face crumpled.
“I was scared.”
I stepped away from the chair.
“Scared of what?”
“Everything.”
Her voice cracked.
“My parents were furious. Caleb and I weren’t together anymore. I was 18 and pregnant, and then he died.”
She pressed both hands against her face.
“I didn’t know what to do.”
I wanted to be angry.
Part of me was furious.
Three years.
Three birthdays.
Three Christmases.
Three years of grieving my son while his child lived somewhere across town.
“Why didn’t you come to me?”
Sadie looked up.
