His shoulders rose and fell. Finally, he whispered, "Evan."
"Evan," I repeated, and the name felt painfully unfamiliar. "How old are you?"
He rubbed his face with both hands. "Seventeen."
My chest tightened.
Seventeen.
The math formed before I wanted it to. Seventeen years since Nina disappeared. A boy with my eyes. A face that looked like it had been copied from an old photograph I still carried in my wallet.
I gripped the fence because the world tilted under me.
"Who is your mother?"
Evan's eyes flashed with panic. "I can't..."
"Is it Nina?"
He flinched.
That tiny movement broke something open in me.
I stepped back and pressed a hand over my mouth. For 17 years, I had imagined Nina dead, trapped, running, or gone because she had chosen to leave me. I had imagined every horrible possibility except this one.
I had never imagined a son.
Evan watched me like I was a storm he had been warned about.
