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"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

I don't answer.

"I believe that something happened," I say carefully.

His eyes lift.

"That's not the same thing."

"No."

"Do you believe I'm your son?"

The question is so direct that I don't have a prepared answer. I have built an entire career around finding the right words. Suddenly, I have none.

"It’s… unclear."

He nods slowly.

The disappointment on his face is small. Controlled. Which somehow makes it worse.

"I understand."

"You do?"

"My whole life, people have told me things I wasn't allowed to question."

The room goes quiet.

"What things?"

"That I was lucky."

"Because you were adopted?"

"Because they chose me."

I don't like the sadness behind those words.

"You think they didn't love you?"

"I think..." He pauses. "I think they loved the version of me they wanted."

That is not a 15-year-old answer. That is an adult answer. A survivor's answer.

Before I can respond, Morrow turns suddenly toward the hallway. My body reacts before my mind does.

"What?"

He frowns.

"Nothing."

"You looked like you heard something."

"I thought I did."