I should have felt hurt.
Instead, I almost laughed through my tears.
Because the boy describing that plan was clearly not the same boy sitting at my table now.
“But you didn’t do it.”
“I messed up.”
“How?”
“I liked it here.”
He covered his face.
“I liked you.”
His shoulders started shaking.
“I liked the porch and your meatloaf and how you didn’t make everything into a huge thing.”
Then he broke completely.
“And then I started loving you.”
I stood and went around the table.
“And when the adoption became final,” he cried, “all I could think was that Emma would find out.”
He struggled to breathe.
“She’d think I chose you instead of her.”
I pulled him against me.
For years, this boy had tried to make himself small.
Polite.
Easy.
Perfect.
Now he finally collapsed.
Four years of grief came pouring out against my shoulder.
