In the car, Luke sat in the back, hands tucked into his hoodie pocket. Streetlights made halos on wet pavement. He watched the passing cars like he was counting something only he could see.
I replayed it all—Caroline’s hand, my dad’s silence, my mom’s eyes fixed on her glass.
“Hey,” I said finally, quiet. “You hungry?”
“I’m fine,” he lied.
He’d eaten half a roll and a spoon of potatoes. He should’ve been sleepy, not hollow.
“We’re getting food,” I said, pulling into the first drive-thru. I ordered him a huge chicken tenders meal with extra fries.
He didn’t speak until the bag sat in his lap.
“Mom,” he said softly.
“Yeah, buddy?”
“Did I do something?”
My hands tightened on the steering wheel. “No. You did nothing. Sometimes adults forget how to be kind. That’s not your fault.”
He stared at the bag, then whispered, “Her kids are more family than me, right?”
That hit harder than Caroline’s “joke” because it wasn’t the first time Luke had done this math—gifts, photos, trips. He’d been collecting evidence for years.
And I’d been ignoring it.
That night, after Luke fell asleep, I opened my laptop and my bank account. I scrolled through scheduled payments and found it—like pressing on a bruise.