He put his hand on my shoulder like he’d earned it and walked me out to the driveway. There it was.
Brand new.
“Happy birthday, kid.”
Mom didn’t say a word.
Marcus stood back near the porch railing, hands shoved in his pockets.
My father was smiling straight at me, but he turned his head toward the porch when he said it.
“Now he knows who his real father is.”
Marcus looked down at the porch steps.
My father held the keys out on his open palm and waited for me to thank him.
I looked down at the keys, the little logo catching the afternoon light, and for a second I let myself imagine the version of this moment where I just took them, said thank you, drove off down the street with the windows down and let everyone sort out the rest. It would have been easier. It wouldn’t have been true.
