“For a smart man, you’re occasionally very slow about some things.” “What are you talking about?” he asks, but his body tenses beside mine. “Rose is a blood relative. Our relative.” He freezes. “But for that to happen she’d need to be—” he groans. “No. No. That was not our kid.” My hand slips through his while he grapples with the fact that the juvenile delinquent we met drinking with erstwhile rock stars, is one of the tiny blinking shapes he just saw on an ultrasound a few weeks ago.
