The flowers David had bought for photographs. Megan’s clutch. Connor’s forgotten boutonniere pin lying on the console. David cleaned none of it.
He sat in the armchair until after midnight while the digital clock above the stove changed hours without offering direction. At one-thirty Megan came down for water. She stopped when she saw him awake. David almost stood but thought better of it.
She opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle, and drank half of it in silence. “I kissed him,” she said suddenly. David’s stomach twisted. “I know.”
“No, you do not know. I kissed someone who might be my brother.” “You did nothing wrong.” “That does not make it feel less disgusting.”
David closed his eyes. Megan set the water on the counter too hard. “If he is your son, I lose him. If he is not your son, I still know you cheated on Mom and lied for eighteen years.
There is no version where tonight goes back to normal.” “No.” She looked at him, furious at the agreement. “Stop saying the right thing after everything.”
David understood then that accountability often feels unsatisfying to the injured because it cannot reverse time. He had no answer that could restore prom, Connor, Laura’s memory, or Megan’s certainty. So he said nothing. The next morning Sarah called a private laboratory before eight.
By noon, all three adults and both teenagers were sitting in a clean clinic waiting room where a television played a home-renovation show without sound. The absurd normalcy of the setting infuriated Megan. Connor sat across from her with his hood up despite the warm day, staring at the floor. They had exchanged one text overnight: Are you okay?