I was frosting a grocery-store sheet cake that said “CONGRATS, LEO!” in blue icing when my son walked into the kitchen looking like he’d seen a ghost.
That made me put the piping bag down.
Leo was eighteen, tall, and usually easy in his own skin. But that day, he stood in the doorway, pale and tight-jawed, his phone clutched so hard I thought he might crack it.
“Hey, baby,” I said. “You look terrible. Tell me you didn’t eat Grandpa’s leftover potato salad.”
“CONGRATS, LEO!”
He didn’t crack a smile.
“Leo?”
He dragged a hand through his hair. “Mom, can you sit down? Please?”
Nobody says that casually when you’ve raised them alone.
That got me the faintest breath of a laugh.
“Not that, Mom.”
“Okay. Great. Not great, but better.”
I sat at the kitchen table. Leo stayed standing for a second, then finally sat across from me.
“Mom, can you sit down? Please?”
“Mom?” Leo whispered.
I couldn’t answer. I grabbed another letter.
“I don’t know if you hate me. My mother says you do. I don’t believe her, but I don’t know how to reach you otherwise.”
“Oh no, no, no,” I muttered.
“I know this looks bad.”
Leo moved closer. “What is it?”
“He thought I hated him.”
Gwen let out a shaky breath. “That’s what our mother told him. She didn’t just lie, Heather. She stole eighteen years from all of you.”
I opened the third letter so fast I almost tore it.
“If it’s a boy, I hope he laughs like you do when you’re really happy.”
My hand flew to my mouth.
“He thought I hated him.”
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