The boys had found proof that he had once known exactly who they were.
That somehow hurt more than forgetting.
The second item was thicker.
A stack of printed emails.
Michael barely looked at them.
“I don't need to read—”
“Yes,” Noah said.
“You do.”
His voice was calm.
“Those are every email Mom sent you about us between ages four and eleven.”
Michael looked at me.
Rebecca whispered:
“You said she blocked you.”
Michael said nothing.
Rebecca turned toward him.
“You told me she changed numbers.
You said your lawyers couldn't find them.”
Still nothing.
Noah reached into the envelope himself and removed the last document.
“This is the important one.”
Michael grabbed it.
His eyes moved across the page.
Then stopped.
His face became gray.
“What is it?”
Rebecca asked.
Michael folded it.
Too late.
Nathan spoke loudly enough that several nearby people heard.
“It’s a copy of the intellectual property assignment Dad filed seventeen years ago transferring Mom’s research to his company.”
My heart slammed against my ribs.
Michael stared at them.
“Where did you get this?”
Noah pointed toward Evan.
“Ask him.”
Michael turned.
Evan stood alone between two rows of blue seats.
His eyes were wet.
“I found it.”
