He covered his face.
“I know.”
“You watched me wonder whether I should have held him.”
“I know.”
“You told me seeing his body would have traumatized me.”
“I know.”
Something inside me went completely quiet.
“Did you ever check on him?”
Adrian looked at the photograph.
“Once.”
My stomach turned.
“When?”
“When he was two.”
“How?”
“Caleb found an address.”
“Why?”
“I needed to know he was okay.”
I stared at him.
“You knew where my child was.”
“Not exactly.”
“You knew he was alive.”
“Yes.”
“And every day after that, you still chose the lie.”
Adrian had no answer.
That was the moment our marriage ended.
Not when I learned Lucas was alive.
Not when the money records appeared.
When Adrian admitted the lie had stopped being panic years earlier.
It had become maintenance.
A decision renewed every morning.
The legal process took more than a year.
Nothing happened as quickly as television suggests.
