“Yes. Yes, of course I am.” Nia moved between him and the children with a speed that surprised even her. “Stop.”
Andre froze. “You do not get to answer every question right now,” Nia said. “You have answered enough questions for everybody for years.” Caroline looked at her, and for the first time there was no rivalry in her expression.
Only recognition. They were not enemies. That discovery did not make the pain smaller. It made Andre’s role clearer.
Nia stood and took Amara’s hand. “We’re leaving.” Andre’s eyes widened. “Nia, please.
I just got home.” She gave him a look so cold it stopped him mid-sentence. “No. You just got caught.”
Caroline turned away with Owen, then stopped. She looked back at Andre once. “Do not come to my apartment tonight.” “Caroline—” “Do not.”
She walked toward the parking garage, Owen still holding the bent sunflowers. Nia waited until they were a few yards away before taking Amara in the opposite direction. Andre remained where he was, his duffel on his shoulder, while two families moved away from him through the same airport. He did not pick up either child.
That image—the soldier home at last, unable to touch either child he had come home to—would replay in the minds of all three adults long after the airport itself became just another building they avoided talking about. Nia cried only once on the drive home, and even then she did it silently. Amara sat in the back seat still holding the WELCOME HOME DADDY sign, now curled at one corner. She asked three questions before they reached the interstate.
Was the other boy her brother? Why did Daddy not ride with them? Was Daddy mad? Nia answered only what she could safely answer.
“The little boy might be your brother.” “Daddy needs to stay somewhere else tonight.” “This is not because of anything you did.” At the word brother, Amara became very quiet.
Nia wanted to pull over, climb into the back seat, and hold her. Instead she kept driving because she was afraid if she stopped the car she would not be able to start again. The Carter home stood in a subdivision south of Nashville, a two-story brick house with a narrow front porch, a basketball hoop over the garage, and a flower bed Nia maintained mostly because Andre said he liked how it looked from the street. She had decorated the front door that afternoon with a small Army-themed welcome banner and arranged Andre’s favorite foods in the refrigerator.
His mother, Denise, planned to come over the next morning with breakfast. Nia had washed the guest towels even though there were no guests. She had changed their sheets. She had put a bottle of bourbon he liked on the kitchen counter with two clean glasses.