I kept both hands on the counter.
“No.”
“He calls you Dad.”
“You should ask him about that.”
“I’m asking you.”
“I never told him to call me anything.”
Trent laughed.
“Right.”
Then his expression changed.
“I hear everybody in town knows you can't have kids.”
It felt like someone had kicked open a private door in front of strangers.
I said nothing.
He continued.
“Thirty-four-year-old divorced guy.”
“No family.”
“Little boy sits in the back of his store every day.”
“You make him a badge.”
“Give him jobs.”
“Show up at his school pretending you're Dad.”
He leaned closer.
“You know what that looks like?”
My hands started shaking.
I hated that.
Not because I wanted to hit him.
Because he had taken every true piece of my life and arranged it into something ugly.
That is a particular kind of cruelty.
“You finished?”
“No.”
“He is my son.”
“You don't get to take him because you couldn't make one.”
The store became silent.
One customer put down whatever he was holding.
I looked at Trent.
Then asked:
“How far away do you live?”
He blinked.
“What?”
“Your house.”
“How far?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Thirty-five minutes.”
He stared.
“I checked Saturday.”
Trent folded his arms.
“So?”
I spoke quietly.
“You've had four years and thirty-five minutes of road.”
His face changed.
“You didn't drive it for his fifth birthday.”
“You didn't drive it for his sixth.”
“You didn't drive it when he had pneumonia last winter and Clare slept in a hospital chair for three nights.”
“You didn't drive it on Christmas.”
“You didn't drive it on the first day of school.”
Trent opened his mouth.
I continued.
“You drove it Monday.”
“Twelve hours after you heard another man ate a donut with him.”
Silence.
“You're not here because you missed Charlie.”
“You're here because somebody else showed up.”
“And now you have to look at what that says about you.”
Trent’s face went red.
“You don't know anything about me.”
“Correct.”
“I only know when you arrived.”
He stepped closer.
“I can get a lawyer.”
“You should if you want legal advice.”
“Don't be smart.”
“I own a hardware store.”
“Smart would be disappointing.”
One customer coughed to hide a laugh.
Trent glared.
Then lowered his voice.
“You think you're better than me?”
“No.”
I meant it.
“I think you had thirty-five minutes.”
“That's all.”
He stood there.
No comeback.
Because every argument he could make had to cross that road.
Finally he said:
“This isn't over.”
Then left.
I waited until his truck disappeared before going into the back.
Charlie sat on an upside-down bucket with ninety-three paint stirrers lined on the floor.
He looked up.
“Did I count enough?”
I crouched.
“Yeah.”
He stared toward the door.
“Is Trent mad?”
“Yes.”
“At me?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
My throat tightened.
“Yes.”
He nodded.
Then asked:
“Can I finish?”
“Yeah.”