He never once asked me to come home. Not once. He never asked what we were. He never pushed.
On a Wednesday in January, I finally asked him the question I’d been holding onto.
We were sitting on my parents’ back steps, wrapped in coats, with Evelyn asleep in the stroller beside us, bundled up like a tiny marshmallow.
“If she hadn’t had red hair,” I said. “If she’d come out with dark hair, like yours. Would you ever have told me?”
He didn’t answer right away. I respected that. He actually thought about it.
“I don’t know,” he said finally. “I want to say yes. I want to tell you I would have found the courage someday. But honestly? Probably not. I think I would have carried it forever. I think I would have let you believe it was you for the rest of our lives.”
