“No.”
The honesty in that single word hits harder than any accusation could.
For a long time neither of us speaks.
I can hear my heartbeat in my ears.
Somewhere down the corridor a ventilation fan kicks on with a low mechanical whine.
“You know the worst part?” I say eventually.
“What?”
“You’re not entirely wrong.”
Tilda doesn’t answer.
She just watches me carefully, like she’s trying to figure out what direction this conversation is about to take.
I rub my hands over my face.
“God,” I mutter. “I’ve got a kid.”
“Yes.”
“A whole human being.”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve been raising him alone for two years.”
“Yes.”
The weight of that realization settles slowly into my chest.
Two years.
First steps.
First words.
First everything.
And I wasn’t there.
Not because I chose to disappear.
Because I was never told.
But the anger I expected to feel doesn’t come.
Instead something quieter settles in its place.
Something heavier.
Understanding.
“You really thought I’d screw it up,” I say softly.
