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“You don’t have to say anything,” Luke tells me in a quiet whisper.
“I’m sorry,” is all I can think to say.
Your father was a thief, but I’m sorry you have to go through this. I’m sorry you’ll have to go through so much more.
Luke blinks several times, then looks up at the branches above. A tear spills over, and he slaps it away, quick and proud.
Something beyond my control takes my hand to his arm. He startles a bit, looks at my fingers, then into my eyes. I hold his gaze, sense the iron bars that cage his pain. Too much to bear by himself when he doesn’t have to.
More tears streak his cheeks and when he looks away, my arms find their way into a tight embrace I didn’t know I had in me to give. In the first instant, his limbs become stone, but they melt quickly, like pieces of ice next to kindling flame. He rests his cheek on my head, but leaves limp arms hanging at his sides.
It’s not his fault Mom preferred the idea of him to the reality of me. It won’t be his fault if he hates me when he finds out the truth. The truth that will make his life up to this point a lie.
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