The familiar eyebrows, the strange tenderness, the way his hand tightened around the cup whenever he looked at me.

“Who are you to me?”

He set the cup down and sat where I could see him without twisting my sore body.

“I believe I’m your biological father.”

I stared.

“My father died when I was little,” I said.

“That’s what my mother told me.”

“I know that’s what you were told.