The young plumber I’d seen at Monica’s house throughout the summer stepped onto the porch. He wasn’t carrying his toolbox this time.
“Luke,” Monica said sharply. “Go back inside.”
He didn’t.
I’d seen him half a dozen times over the past few months, usually carrying tools through Monica’s door. I’d never thought twice about him.
Still, something about his face bothered me.
Not enough to recognize. Enough to feel familiar.
“She didn’t come back here because she wanted Daniel,” he said.
Monica turned on him. “Luke, don’t.”
“He’s gone, Mom. What are we protecting now?”
Mom.
I looked from Monica to him.
He was in his mid-twenties.
My stomach dropped.
Twenty-seven years.
“No,” I whispered.
Luke stopped beside his mother. “I found out about Daniel three months ago. Mom finally told me his name.”
Monica looked away.
“I came here because I wanted to meet him,” Luke continued. “I just didn’t know how you walk up to a stranger and tell him you’re the son he never knew existed.”
“You were waiting?” I asked.
He nodded. “Every week I told myself I’d do it. Mom kept saying we needed to be sure, that we needed to find the right time.” His voice broke slightly. “Then there wasn’t any time left.”
For a second he looked so much like Daniel when he was nervous that I forgot how to breathe.
“Daniel was my father.”
I looked at Monica. Twenty-seven years of resentment suddenly had a shape.
But one thing still didn’t make sense.
“The apples.”
Monica blinked. “What?”
I noticed the open garage behind her.
