“Claire,” he whispered, “what are you doing?”
I looked at the family that had spent twelve years believing I should be grateful they tolerated me.
Then Howard opened the folder.
Howard opened the blue folder.
For one second, I considered telling him to close it.
Not because I had changed my mind.
Because Noah was still standing beside the dining table in a paper birthday crown, looking from me to Ethan with the solemn confusion only a seven-year-old could manage.
This was his morning.
Whatever happened between the adults in the room, I would not turn my son's birthday into a courtroom.
