Meanwhile Laura developed ovarian cancer when Megan was eleven. The diagnosis reorganized the Mercer household overnight. Treatments, surgeries, scans, remissions, recurrence. David became a caretaker with a devotion that was real enough to make his earlier betrayal feel even more monstrous when he thought about it.
Laura never knew about Sarah. She died three years later, holding David’s hand, after telling him the only thing she wanted was for Megan to feel secure. David had spent six years trying to honor that request. Until prom night.
By nine o’clock, Megan was still upstairs. Connor had changed out of his tuxedo jacket and sat on the living-room sofa in his white shirt with the bow tie hanging loose around his neck. Sarah had called her sister to come pick them up because she did not trust herself to drive. David sat across from Connor in an armchair, each man studying the other’s face despite themselves.
The resemblance became worse the longer David looked. Connor had Paul’s surname, Paul’s upbringing, Paul’s memories, and perhaps David’s jaw. Biology was suddenly an intruder claiming space in a room built by someone else. David understood with a new kind of humiliation that if the test confirmed paternity, his first impulse could not be ownership.
Connor had already had a father. David had, at best, provided DNA and nineteen years of uncertainty. Sarah sat at the edge of the sectional, hands wrapped tightly around her phone. “I should have told him sooner,” she said.
Connor looked at her. “Sooner than five minutes before prom would have been nice.” “I mean years ago.” “Yeah.”
Sarah flinched. David spoke carefully. “This is on me too.” Connor turned toward him.
“I know.” The bluntness hurt, but David deserved it. Megan came downstairs twenty minutes later wearing sweatpants and one of Laura’s old college hoodies. Her makeup had been washed away.