“You’re accusing me.”
“I’m asking if he’s mine.”
“No.”
The answer comes fast.
Too fast.
And we both know it.
Silence settles over the hallway.
Jesse shifts slightly and pats her shoulder.
“Mama mad?”
She softens instantly.
“No, sweetheart,” she murmurs. “Mama’s fine.”
The tenderness in her voice hits me harder than any argument could.
I take a step back.
“Tilda.”
“What.”
“If he is mine?—”
“He’s not.”
“If he is,” I continue calmly, “I deserve to know.”
Her eyes flash with something dangerously close to panic.
“You deserve nothing.”
The words sting more than I expect.
For a moment we just stand there, staring at each other across a gulf of unresolved history.
Then the drone noise grows louder behind us.
Tilda hears it too.
She turns immediately and starts walking back toward the family wing.
“This conversation is over.”
“Tilda.”
She doesn’t stop.
“Tilda!”
She disappears through the visitation door without looking back.
