Not because Evelyn had Down syndrome.
Not only because of that, anyway.
Because she was evidence. A complication. A scandal wrapped in pigtails and sunshine dresses.
A hot, fierce anger rose through the numbness.
Evelyn looked up at me then, studying my face. “Mama sad?”
That nearly undid me.
I held her close and kissed her hair. “No, baby. Mama’s here.”
Then I looked at Norton.
There are moments when love and betrayal sit so close together they almost wear the same face. I saw the man who had rocked our daughter through fevers, memorized therapy instructions, cried when she first said Daddy clearly enough to understand. I also saw the man who had looked me in the eye for years and hidden something this enormous.
“I need you to hear me very clearly,” I said.
He nodded, pale and silent.
