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The whole time, her hand remains clasped in mine, anchoring me. I brush my thumb over her knuckles.

Ezra catches my eye across the table, his eyebrows raised slightly. He knows me well enough to sense the shift in my demeanor, the way Mary’s presence has softened me.

After dinner, my dad clears his throat. “Mary, would you like to see some childhood photos of Connor? I have an entire album in the living room.”

“I’d love to.” Mary stands up, following him.

I follow, too, and settle down beside Mary and my father on the couch. Ezra leans on the sofa’s backrest, peering over my father’s shoulder, who flips through our old photo album, reminiscing about each picture.

“Here.” George points to a photo of me as a young boy, covered in mud. “Connor always loved getting dirty, even from an early age. This was taken after he’d spent hours digging holes in our garden… claimed he was searching for buried treasure.”

Mary giggles at the image, and I feel my own lips twitch in amusement.

“Here’s Connor on his first day of school. Wasn’t he tiny?” My father continues.

“He was,” Mary says. “And he had the same serious expression even then. Did you ever smile as a child?”

“Only on special occasions,” I say.

Mary points to a photo of the three of us at the beach, Ezra, still a toddler, perched on my father’s shoulders. “You were such a cute little boy. Look at those chubby cheeks.” She pinches my cheek playfully.

I bat her hand away with a scowl that holds no real annoyance. “Not all of us can remain eternally adorable, Blue.”

My father chuckles, flipping to reveal a gawky and awkward picture of me at twelve. “Here’s the proof. Our little boy wasn’t so little anymore and not quite grown into his limbs.”

“Dad!” I protest, trying to snatch the album away. He jerks it out of reach, and I’m left swatting at empty air.

Mary dissolves into giggles at my expense, earning a mock glare.

“Be nice, or I’m hiding all the childhood photos where you can’t find them,” I say.

She presses a kiss to my cheek, unrepentant. “You were adorable then, and you’re adorable now.”

I glue her to my side. My father’s features soften as he watches us, and for a moment, I glimpse the depth of his affection. It’s a look I’ve only ever seen directed at my mother in old photographs. A pang of bittersweet nostalgia fills me.

“Who’s this?” Mary points to a picture of me as a toddler, cradled in the arms of a woman with blonde hair and pale blue eyes.

My smile falters, and an uneasy feeling twists my stomach.

That damn picture. It’s been years since I’ve laid eyes on it, yet seeing it now fills me with a seething rage.

Her smile is radiant but distant as if she’s gazing at something beyond the camera. I wonder if even then, in that single moment the photo was taken, she was dreaming of escape, of a life without the responsibilities of a husband and two young boys who needed her.

My mother.

Chapter 37

Mary

“That would be my mother, Teresa.” Connor’s eyes are devoid of any emotion as if lost in some distant, unpleasant memory.

I trace the lines of Connor’s mother’s face. Young and beautiful, with blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders. But her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. Something about it seems forced.

My gaze darts between Connor, Ezra, and the woman in the photo. She resembles Ezra, yet I notice hints of Connor in her features, too—the sharp angle of her jaw, the piercing gaze.

“Remarkable resemblance,” I say. “Connor, you have her—”

“Her what? Her detachment?” His laugh is hollow. It’s a sound that tugs at something deep within me, a heartstring fraying from too much strain.

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