My parents threw me out at nineteen because I wouldn’t end my pregnancy. Ten years later I drove back with my son and knocked on the same door and I finally told them who his father was.

Because for ten years they have believed that their son died at twenty-three and left nothing behind him at all.

And on the wall of that hallway, four feet from where Leo was standing, there is a photograph of Rhys at ten years old.

Same jaw.