His hair was the color of a new penny.
And so was the baby’s.
“That’s my father,” my mom said. Her voice was steady and quiet. “Thomas Callahan. Copper Tom. And that’s me on his knee. 1962.” She looked across the room at Ben. “Red hair skips generations, Ben. It can hide for fifty years and pop up out of nowhere. Every grandmother in America could have told you that.”
Ben stared at the photograph.
Then he started to cry again. Not the way he’d been crying before. This was different. This was a man watching his last excuse fall away and seeing exactly what he’d done.
“She’s yours,” I said. “She’s always been yours.”
“I know,” he whispered. “I know. I knew it the moment I left that doctor’s office. But it doesn’t matter. Even if she wasn’t, I should have—”
