Peter flinched and looked away toward the dark window over the backyard, where the old tire swing hung from the maple tree.

“Joanie’s house isn’t a prison camp, Claire, she would’ve spoiled him rotten out in the country,” he muttered weakly.

“Joanie is his great-aunt, Peter, not the mother who held him at four months old and promised to protect him forever,” I reminded him.

“We were never going to quit being his parents, Claire,” he insisted, his voice breaking with emotion.

“Then why did you look him in the eye and tell him his mother was the one who wanted him gone?” I demanded for the tenth time.