He respected me and was polite, but the love—the deep love a child has for their mother—was never there. I felt it in the way he never called me “Mom,” and how he was quick to say thanks but never showed warmth. “So, how long are you in town?” I asked, trying to keep things easy.
“Just a few days,” he said, slicing his steak. “Got a lot going on. Big case next month.”
“Well, we’re happy you’re here. Your dad and I—”
Suddenly, there was a loud knock at the door, almost sharp, pulling me from my thoughts. Owen looked up from his seat, and Rory raised an eyebrow, confused.
“Expecting someone?”
I shook my head, a strange knot in my stomach. “No, I’m not.”
I stood, wiped my hands on a kitchen towel, and went to the door. When I opened it, my heart nearly stopped.
It was Vance. After 27 years, my brother stood there, looking older, thinner, and worn out by life. His hair was gray, his face weary.
He smelled like he hadn’t washed in days, and his clothes were dirty and torn. “Sis,” he said, his voice rough. “It’s been a long time.”
I couldn’t speak.
Rory stepped closer, his face puzzled. “Who is this?” he asked. My throat tightened.
“This… this is your father,” I finally said. Rory’s eyes widened, and he turned to Vance. “You’re my father?”
Vance stepped forward, his voice getting louder.Continue reading…
