“We did,” my mother says. “Because at the time, it felt like the right thing for you.”
“How was that the right thing for me?”
Mum looks down, then back at me. “Mitchell could give you things Marcus couldn’t. Stability. A name. Security. At the time, that mattered.”
The pieces start sliding into place.
The way I never looked like Dad.
Or Ryan, who looked so much like him.
That feeling I'd carried my whole life of belonging, but not completely. Of being part of something while somehow standing just outside it.
The way Dad connected with Charlotte—easy and effortless. The way I always seemed to be watching from the edge of it.
I see it now. Or at least I think I do.
“Does Grandad know?”
“No.”
“Did Dad?”
“He may have suspected, but he never said anything.”
No. I suppose most men would rather live with a suspicion than have it confirmed.
I look at Marcus—at my father—and feel something that isn’t simple. Something I recognize, even if I don’t fully understand it yet. Like something’s been missing and I’ve only just noticed.
And underneath that—faster than I expect—clarity.
I look back at my mother.
“Charlotte and I?—”
She shakes her head.
“Are not siblings.”
Not the same father. Charlotte is Mitchell’s child. I’m not.
Everything people think they know about us—everything they’ve built around it—isn’t true.
A door I didn’t even know existed has just opened.
I become aware of Charlotte watching me.
Waiting.
I look at her. At her face. The curve of her beneath the dress.
Our son wasn’t a mistake. He’s not something to hide. Neither are we. And somehow, I think that’s going to disappoint people. They were hoping for something uglier.
Gallagher.
I think about the name I’ve carried my whole life. The version of myself built around it.
It doesn’t matter.
