“No,” I repeated. “He was your son when he was begging for you. He was your son when I called you eighteen times. He was your son when his lungs filled with panic and his hand searched for mine because yours wasn’t there.”
Garrett’s face collapsed. “I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t answer.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Because you were with her.”
He flinched.
My father turned slowly.
“What does she mean?”
Garrett’s lips parted.
Nothing came out.
I reached for my phone with shaking fingers and opened the call log. Eighteen calls. One after another. Then I looked at Garrett’s phone.
“Show him the message.”
“Claire—”
“Show him.”
“Please, don’t do this here.”
That was the moment something in my father changed completely.
He moved so quickly that Garrett barely had time to react. Not violently. My father was too controlled for that. He simply extended one hand.
“Phone.”
Garrett stared at him.
“This is private.”
