After a while, he said, “I started wondering about you when I saw you teaching the kids to make wrapper dolls after Halloween. Then one day you left your wallet in the lounge. It opened when I picked it up. I saw the old photo inside. You with your parents. Same smile. Same eyes.”
“So that’s how you knew,” I whispered, blinking through the tears.
“That’s how I knew.”
Harris had been carrying my childhood in silence while I walked past him every day with a gradebook in my hand.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner, Harris?”
“I didn’t want pity,” he said, giving a small, tired smile. “I was just… glad you never changed.”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner, Harris?”
I thought about the umbrella, the boots, and the way he said I never changed.
“And last night,” I whispered, “when you said your wife was waiting for you…”
Harris looked toward the hallway, toward Catherine’s picture downstairs. “I meant it. She’s in every room of this house.”
