Then he waves back.
That’s when Tilda walks into the courtyard.
She appears through the sliding door with the purposeful stride of someone who has exactly fifteen minutes of visitation time and intends to use every second of it. The moment Jesse sees her his entire posture changes. He drops the toy and runs toward her with a delighted shout.
“Mama!”
She scoops him up before he can collide with her knees, laughing softly as she lifts him against her hip. The sound of thatlaugh carries faintly through the glass barrier, and something in my chest twists painfully at the warmth in it.
“You having fun?” she asks him.
He nods enthusiastically and begins explaining something about the toy drone using a combination of toddler logic and enthusiastic hand gestures.
I watch them together for several long seconds.
The way she holds him.
The way he leans into her shoulder without thinking.
The small, unconscious touches that happen between people who spend every day in each other’s orbit.
My throat tightens.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “There’s definitely a story there.”
Tilda shifts Jesse to her other hip and turns slightly toward the courtyard exit.
That’s when she sees me.
The transformation is immediate.
The easy warmth disappears from her expression like someone flipped a switch.
Her shoulders stiffen.
Her eyes narrow.
Even through the glass I can read the silent message perfectly.
Not here.
Jesse notices the change in her posture and follows her gaze toward the window. When he sees me standing there he brightens immediately.
“Hi!” he shouts, waving again.
Tilda closes her eyes for half a second.
Then she walks toward the exit door.
A moment later the courtyard door slides open and she steps into the commons with Jesse balanced on her hip.
Up close the resemblance is even harder to ignore.
The kid has the same burnished gold eyes my older brother inherited from our father. The same subtle ridge along the cheekbone that shows up in half my family photos. Even the way he grips the collar of Tilda’s shirt with one small fist looks uncannily familiar.
“Bron,” Tilda says in a voice that carries all the warmth of a locked airlock.
“Tilda.”
