That was almost harder to hear than anger.
“I cannot fix twenty-six years.”
“No.”
“I would like to stop making them worse.”
“Then don’t ask me about Mercer again.”
“I won’t.”
“And don’t ask me to call you Dad.”
He swallowed.
“I won’t.”
Then he took an envelope from his coat.
The photograph.
“My name is on it.”
“Yes.”
“Why are you giving it to me?”
“Evelyn thought it belonged with you.”
I looked at the younger version of myself.
Trevor on the front steps.
A family before we had learned how long pride could last.