“Every night.

She’d put my hand on it and have me talk to him, tell him about his day, sing to him.” A silence.

“She knew.

The whole time she was having me do that, she had that piece of paper.

She knew he wasn’t mine, and she watched me love him anyway, every single night, and she never said a word.”

There was nothing I could say to that, so I did not insult him by trying.