“She asked if you would think she wanted a different mother.”
The words landed one at a time.
Renee could not breathe around them.
“Why would she think that?”
Marcus’s face tightened.
“I don't know.”
“Yes, you do.”
He looked down.
“Marcus.”
“She notices things.”
“What things?”
He took time.
“The way you get quiet when Lauren comes up.”
Renee stared.
“She has barely come up.”
“Exactly.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It does to her.”
Marcus continued.
“When we did the family medical-history form last year, Zoe asked what Lauren looked like.”
“You said we didn't have recent pictures.”
“That was true.”
“You left the room.”
“I had work.”
“No.”
Marcus shook his head.
“You cried in the bathroom.”
Renee became still.
“How do you know?”
“I heard you.”
She looked away.
Marcus continued.
“When Zoe asked if she could someday meet Lauren, you said, ‘When you're older, if that's what you still want.’”
“That is reasonable.”
“Yes.”
“But then you didn't eat dinner.”
Renee stared at him.
“You are collecting evidence against me now?”
“No.”
“I’m telling you what Zoe saw.”
The difference hurt.
Marcus leaned forward.
“She loves you.”
“I know.”
“She is terrified of being responsible for your fear.”
Renee stood.
“My fear?”
Marcus stopped.
He should have chosen another word.
Too late.
“What exactly do you think I'm afraid of?”
He looked toward her.
Renee answered for him.
“That some woman who gave birth to her fourteen years ago is going to walk in and suddenly I’m not her mother?”
Marcus said nothing.
Renee laughed bitterly.
“That is what you think of me.”
“No.”
“You think I’m so insecure that my husband and my daughter have to sneak around behind my back to protect me.”
“No.”
“That is literally what you did.”
Marcus stood too.
“I handled it wrong.”
“You handled it?”
Her voice rose.
“You took our fourteen-year-old daughter to meet the woman who gave birth to her and called it handling?”
Upstairs, a floorboard creaked.
Both stopped.
Renee looked toward the staircase.
Zoe stood halfway down.
She wore gray pajama pants and a Howard University sweatshirt that had belonged to Renee in college.
Her face was pale.
“How long have you been there?”
Renee asked.
Zoe looked terrified.
“Long enough.”
Marcus closed his eyes.
Renee looked at her daughter.
The anger inside her changed direction so quickly it made her dizzy.
“Come down.”
Zoe did not move.
Renee softened her voice.
“Please.”
The teenager descended slowly.
She stopped near the sofa.
The laundry basket sat between them like a ridiculous piece of domestic evidence.
Renee stared at Zoe.
Her daughter.
Fourteen years old.
Warm brown skin.
Thick curls currently tied into a messy bun.
A small scar on her chin from falling off a scooter at six.
Long fingers like Marcus even though there was no biological reason for that.
Or perhaps Renee only imagined the resemblance because families taught themselves to see one another.
“Did you meet Lauren?”
Zoe looked at Marcus.
Renee’s heart broke again.
“Don't look at Dad.”
Zoe immediately looked back.
“Yes.”