asked about the father more times than I could count.
“Does he know?”
“Mom, please.”
“What’s his name?”
“I can handle this myself.”
“You shouldn’t have to.”
“Please stop making this harder.”
Every conversation ended the same way.
The day Lucas was born, a doctor entered the waiting room and sat beside me.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “We did everything we could.”
I stared at him.
“The baby?”
“He’s alive.”
Then he paused.
“He’s going to need you.”
My daughter never came home.
My grandson did.
For the next
