A dog collar jingled somewhere in the kitchen.
A child opened a cabinet.
I heard all of it.
Yet I could barely understand the woman sitting five feet away from me.
"You knew for three years?"
"I didn't know before the accident."
"But you knew afterward."
"Yes."
"And you never told me?"
Her face crumpled.
"I was scared."
I stepped away from the chair.
"Scared of what?"
"Everything."
Her voice cracked.
"My parents were furious. Caleb and I weren't together anymore. I was 18 and pregnant, and then he died."
She pressed both hands against her face.
"I didn't know what to do."
I wanted to be angry.
Part of me was furious.
Three years.
Three birthdays.
Three Christmases.
Three years of grieving a son while his child lived somewhere across town.
"Why didn't you come to me?"
Sadie looked up.
"Because I thought you'd hate me."
"Why would I hate you?"
"Because Caleb and I ended badly."
I shook my head.
"That had nothing to do with me."
"It felt like it did then."
She looked toward the kitchen.
"My parents told me not to contact you. They said you had suffered enough."
I let out a broken laugh.
"Suffered enough?"
"I know."
"No, Sadie. You don't know."
She flinched.
I hated that I had hurt her.
But I couldn't stop.
"Do you understand how many Sundays I've sat beside my son's grave wishing I had one more piece of him?"
Tears slid down her cheeks.
"Yes."
"While his son was here?"
"I almost called you a hundred times."
"Then why didn't you?"
She looked toward the hallway again.
"Because every month I waited made it harder."
That answer hurt because I understood it.
Grief does that.
One impossible day becomes a week.
Then a month.
Then years.
I sat across from her.
My anger hadn't disappeared.
But something else had entered the room.
Wonder.
"Does Beau know about Caleb?"
