“I know. I know. Claire, I know—”
“No. You don’t know. You don’t know anything about what the last three days have been like.”
My dad appeared behind me in the hallway. I felt him more than saw him, a solid wall of anger at my back.
“You’ve got some nerve,” my dad said, low and dangerous.
Ben didn’t even look at him. He was looking only at me. And then his legs just folded. He dropped to his knees on my parents’ welcome mat, right there in front of the whole street, and grabbed the hem of my mother’s pink robe with both hands like a drowning man grabbing a rope.
“You don’t understand,” he sobbed. “You don’t understand. I should have told you. I should have told you long before you got pregnant. Before we got married. I should have told you the day I met you.”
