“No. You don’t get to say that like we’re discussing a typo.”
He lowered his head. Noah quietly disappeared toward the kitchen.
I looked at David. “Are those even you in the pictures?”
“Absolutely, just younger.”
“When were they taken?”
“About 15 years ago.”
I felt humiliated. Not because he was 81.
Because I had crossed 1,100 miles wearing a pale green jacket to surprise a man who had never let me see what he looked like now.
I looked around the house. “But you do live here?”
“Yes, the house is mine.”
“And you tend to your flowers?”
“Yes, the hydrangeas are mine, too.”
“What about your wife?”
His face changed. “She died four years ago. That was true.”
He glanced at me. “I didn’t lie about anything else.”
“Anything else you’d like to confess before I find out? Is that really your grandchild?”
Noah called from the kitchen, “I am his stubborn grandchild.”
