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“You just told me my dad’s last words were asking you to take care of me.” My voice cracks, but I keep going. “You don’t get to tell me that and then—then make me wait for an explanation.”

His eyes stay on mine, and he nods. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Why didn’t you come?”

Adrien looks down at his hands, one gloved, the other bare. “When I came home, I was in bad shape.” He sighs. “I’d lost my arm. I had surgeries, rehab, physical therapy, occupational therapy. I wasn’t sleeping. When I did, I woke up thinking I was still out there. I drank more than I should have. Took things to sleep that I shouldn’t have mixed with alcohol. I was angry at everyone, but mostly… myself.”

I think of the man in front of me now, so controlled that even when I tried to smash a lamp over his head, he didn’t raise his voice or hit me.

It’s hard to picture him that way—disheveled and hollow-eyed, clutching a bottle like a lifeline, too wound-up to sleep. I press my back into the headboard and force my sympathy into a corner so I can focus on the questions churning like broken glass in my chest.

“But you got better, right?” I ask. “You could’ve called or knocked on the door or sent a letter or something.”

“I wasn’t fit to take care of a kid.”

“I wasn’t asking you to adopt me.”

“I know, sweethea—Kamden. But your dad wanted you away from Sherry, and I took that pretty seriously. You’re right, though. I could’ve been in your life in other ways. In smaller ways.” Adrien exhales slowly, reaching up to stroke his beard. “I did check on you once.”

“When?”

“Would’ve been maybe a year after getting home. You were nine, soon to be ten.”

My heartbeat starts climbing. “You saw me?”

“Not up close.”

“What does that mean?”

“I found out where you were living. Made sure you were enrolled in school. Watched you get dropped off one afternoon.”

A chill moves through me despite the warmth beneath the comforter. “You were there?”

“Yes.”

I search my memory automatically, which is stupid because I was nine and there were hundreds of afternoons and cars and strangers, and there is no way I could possibly isolate one from the rest.

“You saw me,” I whisper, repeating his words.

He nods solemnly.

“And then you left…?”

Adrien’s face hardens, though not at me. “Yes.”

All at once, my chest aches in a new, hollow way. “You didn’t even talk to me?”

“No.”

“Why?” I rasp.

“Because you looked okay.”

For a heartbeat I think I’ve misunderstood. I stare, incredulous. “What?”

“You were clean. You were going to school. You were living with your mother. I checked for anything obvious—police calls, CPS involvement, things I could find then—and I told myself there wasn’t enough reason to interfere.”

“You thought… I looked okay?”