Sofía closes her eyes for just a second. “Go on, baby. I’ll come get you in a minute.”
He hesitates, then pads down the hallway with the dramatic reluctance only children possess. You watch him go, and something primitive and frightened rises in your chest. When he disappears, you turn back to her. Your voice comes out low and hard. “Explain.”
She nods once, like she expected no mercy and got exactly what she deserved. “He was born seven months after you left.”
You laugh then, but there’s no humor in it. It sounds like something breaking under pressure. “Seven months.”
“I know how that sounds.”
“You know?” Your voice cracks sharp enough to make her flinch. “You know how that sounds?”
She folds her arms over herself, not defensively so much as to keep from falling apart in place. “I found out I was pregnant after you left. I tried calling you.”
That hits a nerve you thought had been dead for years. “You don’t get to rewrite history. I changed my number because I caught you with another man in our apartment.”
“I know.”
“You let me walk away thinking I meant nothing.”
