I met him on the porch with a steady gaze, my heart steeling itself for a conversation years in the making. His eyes darted from the wreath to the worn-out welcome mat, avoiding my own like a child caught with a hand in the cookie jar. “Mom, what did you do?” he demanded, his voice wavering between anger and desperation.
I took a deep breath, feeling the winter chill bite at my skin. “We need to talk,” I said, echoing his earlier insistence but with a calm I didn’t fully recognize. “But first, let’s go inside.”
Inside, the house was warm with the scent of cinnamon still lingering from the night before. He stood awkwardly in the living room, his hands stuffed into his pockets, while I retrieved the folder from the kitchen. I handed it to him without a word, watching as he rifled through the pages, his expression shifting from confusion to realization.
