“You told him I abandoned him?”
“No.”
Grace’s answer came immediately.
“I never told him you knew he existed.”
Dominic’s shoulders loosened by a fraction.
“He asks sometimes,” she said.
“More lately.”
“What do you say?”
“That adults sometimes make complicated mistakes and children aren’t responsible for them.”
Dominic looked down at the folder.
“Does he have my name anywhere?”
“No.”
The answer hurt, but he understood why.
Then the stairs creaked.
Grace turned.
Noah appeared halfway down, wearing the same striped socks from the night before and holding two wooden blocks.
“I waited five minutes.”
Grace glanced at the clock and almost smiled.
“You did.”
Noah came down the remaining steps, slower when he noticed Dominic.
The boy’s eyes moved to the blue folder.
“What’s that?”
“Grown-up paperwork,” Grace said.
Noah grimaced.
“Boring.”
Dominic almost smiled.
Noah walked closer, studying him again.
“You came back.”
“I said I would.”
“You didn’t say it to me.”
“No.”
The boy considered this.
Then held out one of the blocks.
It was part of some half-built structure.
“Do you know how to make bridges?”
Dominic looked at Grace.
She gave no permission and no refusal.
So he answered the child.
“I know a little.”
Noah nodded toward the living room.
“Mine keeps falling.”
Dominic slowly stood.
Then he stopped himself.
“May I?” he asked Grace.
The question seemed to affect her more than anything else he had said that morning.
After a moment, she nodded.
“For a few minutes.”
Dominic followed Noah to the rug near the Christmas tree.
The bridge was made from wooden blocks between two chairs.
Its center span sagged because Noah had tried to build upward before strengthening the base.
Dominic crouched.
Noah pointed.
“It falls there.”
“I see.”
“Can you fix it?”
Dominic picked up one block, then paused.
