“How much?”
I opened the door and unhooked the chain.
“He’s yours.”
Dante didn’t move.
I had imagined this moment hundreds of times.
In some versions, he shouted.
In others, he threatened me.
Sometimes he took Noah away.
Sometimes he laughed because he had already known.
I had never imagined silence.
His hand lowered slowly, the folder hanging uselessly beside him.
“Say it again.”
“Noah is your son.”
He looked past me.
Noah was sitting cross-legged with the wooden train between his knees.
He looked up.
“Hi.”
Dante’s throat moved.
“Hello.”
Noah frowned.
“Why are you at our house?”
Dante looked at me before answering.
For once, he was asking permission without words.
I stepped into the hall and pulled the door nearly closed behind me.
“You don’t tell him yet.”
The softness disappeared from Dante’s expression.
“You’ve had four years.”
“And he’s had four years without men with guns outside his bedroom.”
His eyes hardened.
“You think that’s what I would give him?”
“I think it’s the life you had when I left.”
“Had.”
The word caught me.
“What does that mean?”
Dante looked toward the stairwell.
“It means five years is a long time.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No.
It’s not.”
He looked back at the apartment door.
“But today isn’t about defending myself.”
I almost laughed.
“That’s new.”
He accepted the insult without reaction.
“I want a paternity test.”
My stomach twisted even though I had expected it.
“You think I’m lying?”
“I think we have a child who deserves certainty, not another secret.”
That landed harder than anything cruel would have.
I crossed my arms.
“And after the test?”
“We talk.”
“About custody.”
“About Noah.”
“Same thing.”
“Not to me.”
