I looked down at the little boy in the stroller, knowing that none of this mess was his fault.

Then I looked up at Melinda, but she still wouldn’t meet my eyes. That surprised me, because people who are proud of their choices usually don’t spend their time staring at the linoleum floor.

Finally, I looked directly at Connor. He was waiting for a dramatic reaction—tears, anger, a sharp word. He wanted anything he could carry away as proof that he’d still managed to hurt me.

Instead, I just smiled a small, calm smile. “Really?”

His confidence flickered for only a fraction of a second, but I definitely saw it. It was the same way physicians notice subtle symptoms that others completely miss.

“What exactly does that mean?” he asked, his smile faltering.