I clutched the duffel strap like a lifeline. Dominic’s hand found mine and squeezed, both an anchor and a warning. “I don’t know,” I said.
“Don’t—” Dad started. His mouth closed. He looked as if someone had told him his whole life’s ledger had been restocked in a different ink.
I reached for the test because not deciding felt worse than any verdict. I fumbled, heart tripping, and in that tiny plastic—two lines, bright and undeniable—the world split.
I dropped the test on the table like it had burned me.
Dominic’s breath left him in a cough. I felt his whole body go as still as if someone had switched off his lights. Dad made a sound I’d never heard before—a sound like a man who’d been folded inside himself and who’d found a corner to collapse into.
“Is that—” Dad’s voice was a whisper
