Sophie looked up.
Maya realized what she had said.
Jack turned slowly.
“What?”
Maya’s face lost color.
“I just meant—”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve seen her outside.”
Jack stepped closer.
“You said she’s gotten so big.”
Maya’s fingers tightened around the car key.
“I phrased it badly.”
“How old do you think she is?”
Silence.
“Maya.”
The name felt wrong suddenly.
“How old?”
She swallowed.
“Seven.”
Jack felt something cold move through him.
“You knew that before you talked to her.”
“No.”
“Did she tell you?”
Maya’s eyes filled.
That was answer enough.
Jack’s voice lowered.
“Who are you?”
Sophie was watching now.
Maya glanced toward her.
Then stepped backward.
Her hip hit the workbench.
A small cardboard box tipped.
Jack lunged too late.
The box fell.
Photographs scattered over the concrete.
He had moved them from the hallway closet after a small plumbing leak upstairs. He had meant to sort through them.
He had avoided doing it for three weeks.
Sophie hopped down from the stool.
“Dad, your pictures.”
“Stay there.”
But she was already moving.
Jack crouched.
One photograph landed beside his boot.
He picked it up.
And the world stopped.
The photograph had been taken in this garage.
Seven years earlier.
Jack stood beside the same workbench, younger, clean-shaven, smiling in a way he had almost forgotten.
A woman stood beside him holding a six-month-old baby Sophie.
Long dark hair.
Large brown-hazel eyes.
Full lips.
A familiar smile.
Elena.
Jack looked at the photograph.
Then at Maya.
The face was older.
Hair styled differently.
Makeup more polished.
But it was her.
Of course it was her.
It had always been her.
His mind had known before he let himself know.
Sophie reached the photograph first.
“Who’s that?”
Jack could not answer.
His hands began shaking.
Sophie pointed.
“That’s me?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes moved to the woman in the picture.
Then to Maya.
Back to the photograph.
Children did not need seven years of denial.
They simply saw.
“Dad…”
Jack stood.
Maya’s eyes overflowed.
Sophie’s voice became very small.
“Why is she in my baby picture?”
Jack looked at the woman across from him.
Seven years of funerals without bodies.
Birthdays without answers.
Court documents.
Sleepless nights.
A child asking why her mother did not want her.
A letter folded so many times it tore along one edge.
I can’t do this anymore.
Don’t look for me.
You’ll both be better without me.
Jack had memorized every word despite wishing he could erase them.
He stared at Maya.
“No.”
She whispered, “Jack.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“Who are you?”
Her voice broke.
“You know.”
“Say it.”
Sophie looked between them.
Maya closed her eyes.