Page 19 of Michael: The Hawthornes

“No,” Emilia replied, the word barely audible.

Rumi stared at Emilia. “I can’t believe you had a baby, and you never—”

“No, son,” my dad ordered, cutting Rumi off. “Got time for that later. Come on, let’s give them a minute.”

He shoved Rumi out of the room and suddenly it was just me and Emilia.

“I’m so sorry, Michael,” she said softly, the words like nails on a chalkboard. “I don’t have any excuses. I—we’re here now, though.”

“You’re here now?” I asked, deliberately keeping my voice low so little ears outside wouldn’t catch it. “Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?”

“I did the best I could with the options I had,” she said stubbornly.

“He’s two years old!” I stared at her.

Iknewher. I knew the way she moved and the way she laughed and the freckle on the bottom of her left foot. I knew how she ate her hamburgers and the feel of the callus on her middle finger where she held a pen. I knew it all. I’d seen every emotion cross her face, every bad haircut she’d ever had. Hell, she’d borrowed my sweatshirt when she’d had her first period in sixth grade and bled through her pants. Iknewher, and yet looking at her now felt like I was looking at a fucking stranger.

“I can tell you all of it,” she said, moving toward me. “I know that you won’t forgive me, but maybe it’ll explain a little why—” She reached out to touch my arm and without thought, I knocked it away.

“You get kidnapped?” I asked, staring at her. “Been held in a hole the last three years?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head.

“Amnesia?”

“No, I—”

“Witness protection?”

“No, I wasn’t in witness protection,” she replied, exasperated. “Would you let me speak?”

“I already know how it played out,” I said with a huff. And I did. I knew exactly what had happened. I would’ve bet every dime I had on it.

“Sure,” she said sarcastically. “After ten minutes with us, you just know everything.”

“Not everything,” I ground out. “When is his birthday?”

“February sixteenth,” she said, straightening her shoulders. “He just missed Valentine’s Day.”

“Has he started school?”

“No, he hasn’t started school,” she muttered incredulously. “He’s not old enough.”

My cheeks burned with embarrassment. I should’ve known that. “What’s his favorite thing to do?”

“Play in a sandbox or dirt. Second favorite is playing with cars. Any cars, big, small, whatever.”

“Favorite color?”

“He doesn’t have one yet.”

“Favorite food?”

“Pizza.”

“What—” My voice cracked, and I cleared my throat. “What was he like as a baby?”

“He was a mama’s boy,” she replied softly. “He wanted to be anywhere I was. Happy. He slept good from the beginning.”

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