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“I didn’t call him that.”

I lean back in the chair. “Was he really my father?”

Mom looks down at her coffee, then back at me.

“Yes.”

One word, and the kitchen becomes a different room.

“Yes,” I repeat.

Mom nods.

I wait for more. My mom, being my mom, gives me nothing.

I drag both hands over my face. “Jesus Christ, Mom.”

“I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.”

Her mouth tightens again.

Mom has always done emotions the way she does laundry: privately, efficiently, and before anyone can comment on her methods. But there’s something in her face now I almost recognize. Not guilt. Not only guilt.

Grief, maybe.

That makes me angrier.

“This whole time?”

“Yes.”

“And he knew?”

“Yes.”

“Did everybody know except me? Did Pawpaw know?”

“No one knew.”

“Just your dirty little secret then.”

“Clint.”

“Don’t.”

She folds her hands around the mug. Her knuckles are pale. “I should have told you sooner.”

That is such a small sentence for such a big hole that I laugh, and it comes out ugly.

“You think?”

Her eyes close for a second.

I want something to bite. I want the table to crack. The mug to break. The magnets to fall off the loud-ass refrigerator.

Mom opens her eyes. “Henry and I were close when we were young.”