He absorbs that quietly.
“Nico is your father,” I continue. “But he’s not your dad.”
The words taste bitter coming out.
Noah looks down at his cereal for a long moment.
Then he nods.
“Okay.”
My chest tightens.
“You understand?”
“Yeah.”
His voice is calm, but he’s thinking. I can see the wheels turning in his head.
Then he says something that makes my throat burn.
“Maybe, one day, he’ll want to be.”
I look at him. “What?”
“A dad,” Noah says simply. “Maybe, one day, he’ll want to be my dad.”
Hope is a dangerous thing. But it slips into my chest anyway before I can stop it.
“Maybe,” I say quietly.
Then I ruffle his hair and stand up.
“Finish your cereal. We’re going to be late.”
The school lobbysmells like disinfectant and crayons.
I hold Noah’s hand while we wait at the front desk like we do every morning. The receptionist recognizes us immediately, but today there’s a strange hesitation in the way she looks at him.
“Good morning,” she says.
“Morning,” I reply.
She glances down at the sign-out sheet, then back up.
“There was… someone asking about him earlier.”
My stomach drops.
“What do you mean?”
“A man stopped by this morning,” she explains. “He said he might be picking Noah up sometimes and wanted to understand the pickup policy.”
My grip on Noah’s hand tightens.
“What man?”
She frowns slightly, trying to remember.
