He looked older than he had at Sunday dinner. His gray hair was disheveled, and dark circles sat beneath his eyes.
“Your mother wants to see the kids,” he said.
“No.”
His jaw tightened. “You cannot cut us off over one meal.”
“One meal?” I repeated.
He looked past me into the apartment. Noah’s sneakers sat near the couch. Lily’s drawing of our family was taped to the refrigerator. In the picture, there were three people: me, Noah, and Lily. No one else.
His eyes stayed on it.
“You’re turning them against us,” he said.
“No. You showed them who you were. I believed them when they were hurt.”
He leaned closer to the narrow gap in the door. “Family forgives.”
“Family feeds children.”
His expression shifted. For one second, anger slipped and something like shame appeared. But it disappeared quickly.
“You think you’re better than us now?”
