“Every Sunday.

The Selwyn name, the Selwyn men, carrying it forward.

He put that in me so deep I painted a nursery navy before I knew my own son’s face.” He looked up, and something in him had broken open that I had never seen in nine years.

“And the whole time he was telling me the name was sacred, he had a son sitting three feet away at my own kitchen table that he’d paid to erase.

He didn’t care about the name.

He cared about looking like a man who cared about the name.