“That is interesting, because public abandonment was apparently the right place for family policy.”
Before he could respond, the elevator doors opened. Mateo stepped out in blue surgical scrubs, a mask hanging from one ear, his hair flattened from a surgical cap after nearly eleven hours in the operating room. He carried vending-machine coffee in one hand and a stack of patient charts in the other. Exhaustion sat under his eyes, but the entire lobby seemed to shift around him. Nurses nodded. Residents stepped aside. Respect followed him without needing an introduction.
My mother saw him and transformed instantly.
Her hands lifted toward her chest, her face softening into a grandmotherly performance so false that it made my stomach turn.
“Mateo,” she breathed. “My beautiful grandson. We finally found you.”
Mateo stopped, looked at them, then looked at me.
“Mom, who are the overdressed people blocking the desk?”
I pressed my lips together.
“Those are Conrad and Vivian Whitcomb.”
His expression sharpened.
“The Central Park people?”
My mother flinched, but recovered quickly.
