Chapter 7: The Price of a Father's Love

The envelope remained in Michael's inside jacket pocket throughout lunch.

He didn't open it when the waiter poured coffee. He didn't open it when Daniel's business friends offered congratulations. And he didn't open it when Chloe suggested that the family take a limousine to her house for an evening celebration.

Instead, he turned to me.

"Mom, are you tired?""

I almost laughed.

Tired was something I had been for nineteen years.

But I understood what he was asking.

"Not particularly.""

"Then let's go somewhere we can talk.""

Daniel stood immediately.

"Michael, I thought we could spend the evening together.""

"We can," Michael replied.

"But I need some time with my mother first.""

Chloe placed her napkin beside her plate.

"You're being unnecessarily difficult. Your father has organized all of this to celebrate you.""

Michael looked at her.

"Did you organize it to celebrate me, or to make sure everyone sees you celebrating me?""

Her face drained of color.

"That is an outrageous thing to say.""

"Then it should be easy to prove me wrong.""

Daniel rose slowly.

"Michael, perhaps we should all take a breath.""

"No, Dad. I've spent my whole life taking a breath before asking why you weren't there. I'm tired of doing that.""

He held out his hand to me.

We left together.

Outside, the late-afternoon heat settled over Houston. Cars passed along the street, and a delivery truck rattled over a seam in the pavement.

Michael took me to a small café two blocks from the hotel. It wasn't luxurious, but it had wooden tables, iced tea, and a handwritten menu taped to the wall.

He ordered a sandwich for himself and a cup of coffee for me.

I watched him unwrap the paper straw with the same concentration he had once used to dismantle broken toys.

When had my little boy become a man capable of making decisions that large?

"Mom," he said at last, "I need to ask you something, and I need you to tell me the truth.""

I folded my hands around the coffee cup.

"All right.""

"Did Dad ever send money?""

The question landed between us.

I stared into the dark surface of my coffee.

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"Michael—"

"I know what you told me when I was little. I know you said he would help when he could. But today, when that man said Dad