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“I don’t have a father,” she says quietly. “Well, I do, but I don’t know where he is. And it’s never held me back. You’re not your past, Marcus.”

My throat feels thick.

I nod slowly and crank the truck.

Margo’s quiet on the drive there, and I’m just trying to keep it together. Trying not to blurt out how much what she just said meant to me.

She’d shared a piece of her past with me. Made me feel heard.

My chest feels like it might burst as Wayward Hills comes into view.

Margo leans toward me as if she senses my discomfort. I pull up in one of the visitor spaces. It’s depressing how most of them are empty.

I kill the engine and hop out.

Margo’s already opened the door when I come around to her side, but she takes my hand when I offer it.

She hops down, looking up at me with shrewd brown eyes.

Then she reaches over and squeezes my hand. I squeeze it back before she drops it.

I let her walk in first, following a few steps behind her, my head down.

Margo walks right up to the front desk.

“Hello, I’m Margo Reyes. I called a couple days ago about donating some pastries?”

The receptionist stands up with effort and I glance up and wince.

It’s Mrs. Reeves. She used to be one of the counselors when I was a kid. God, she must be pushing seventy now.

She squints through thick glasses as I walk up behind Margo.

“Marcus Sterling, is that you?”

I groan inwardly. Of all the people to recognize me, I can’t believe it’s Mrs. Reeves.

“Yes, ma’am,” I mutter.

She looks at me for a moment, and then her wrinkled face breaks into a big smile. Makes her look fifteen years younger.

“It’s about time you came to visit. We get your checks every month like clockwork.” She looks at Margo. “Your man is generous.”

Heat floods my face. I don’t think I’ve blushed since I was fourteen.

Margo turns around to look at me, grinning.

“Is that so? Tell me more.”

“We should start unloading the pastries,” I say quickly, hoping to distract Mrs. Reeves.

“Wait just a moment, I’ll open the back doors. The boys will be excited. They’re so looking forward to the festival,” she says, and heads into the back.

“C’mon, we’ll pull around,” I tell Margo. My voice comes out rough.

I walk back out to the truck.

She follows me. “How come you didn’t tell me you donate to the group home?”