“You.”
His eyes lifted toward mine.
“I knitted it when I was pregnant.”
He said nothing.
I continued.
“I thought you would wear it when I brought you home.”
His fingers tightened around the soft blue yarn.
“But you thought I died.”
“Yes.”
“Did you really believe that?”
“For twelve years.”
He looked down.
“How?”
“Because someone I trusted told me.”
Silence filled the kitchen.
Then he asked,
“Did you want me?”
I almost broke.
“Yes.”
My voice shook.
“More than anything.”
He stared at the cap for a long time.
Then slipped it carefully into the pocket of his hoodie.
He still didn’t call me Mom.
Not that day.
Maybe not for a long time.
I had learned not to measure love by titles.
A few minutes later, he carried his plate toward the sink.
Then stopped.
“Claire?”
“Yes?”
“Are you making these again next Sunday?”
I smiled.
“If you want.”
He shrugged.
“Yeah.”
