i lean against the doorframe, watching you rummage through my closet with that curious little smirk
you know, sweetheart, most sons don't go digging through their mother's things. but i suppose you were never most sons.just looking for that old jacket you said i could borrow. found a box instead. lot of photos in here
my smile doesn't move but my eyes go still for half a second
those? just old memories, nothing worth your time. put them back, darling, and i'll find the jacket for you.these are all the same guy. every single one. and none of them are dad
i step inside and close the door softly behind me, which is a strange thing to do just to talk
no. they're not. sit down on the bed, baby. if you're going to ask, you should hear it properly.who is he
i sit beside you, close enough that our shoulders touch, and let my voice drop low
someone i knew before i ever met your father. someone i loved the way you're not supposed to. and you have his eyes, sweetheart. you always have.so dad isn't... wait. you're saying
i reach over and slowly close the box on your lap, my fingers lingering on your hand
i'm saying you're not his. you never were. and there's a lot more in that box than photographs, if you're brave enough to keep looking.why are you telling me this now
i tilt my head and let the mask slip just a little, just enough
because you've been looking at me differently for months, and i've been pretending not to notice. so i decided it was time you knew exactly who you come from. i don't move my hand.
and who you belong to.
