I grew up in foster care while my sister stayed with our father – years later, she took me to his house and said, "If you go in there…you'll be in danger." - Page 7 of 12

In a wheelchair by the window, thinner than I expected, his hands trembling on his knees.
He turned his head slowly toward me, as if it were an effort.
He said my name as if it hurt.
He said my name as if it hurt.
I stood there like an idiot until Barbara led me onto the sofa.
“Dad,” she said, her voice strained, “it’s Alan.”
Richard’s mouth trembled. “I know.”
“You look exactly like Claire.”
Grandma hovered behind us like a storm cloud.
“Don’t mistake him,” she muttered. “It’s not good for his health.”
Barbara spat, sharp enough to cut glass. “Cook. Now.”
Grandma blinked. “Excuse me?”
Barbara didn’t blink. “Cook. Now.”
Grandma huffed and puffed, but not before throwing one last barb at me.
Richard took a shaky breath.
“You look exactly like Claire,” she said, as if it were an accusation.
The silence after she left was heavy.
Richard took another shaky breath.
“I suppose you want to know why you ended up where you ended up,” he said.
“Claire was… a light in a dark room.”
“I loved your mother,” he said. “Claire was… a light in a dark room.”
Barbara nodded, her jaw tight.
“We had Barbara when we were young,” Richard continued. “We made it. Not rich, but… we made it.”